My Kid.

Overdosed again.

She is alive, but in ICU again.

There truly can’t be anything more emotionally painful or spiritually murderous than to live in this particular realm of Limbo; where the knowledge of so much misery and ruin of my only (though completely estranged) child is permanent. 

Dear Dead Man.

I must confess,
this note’s addressed,
to you, most evil man,
my own attempted murderer
my, once, beloved husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
the way that you continue to,
assert your unearned place
haunting me via Déjà vu,
black and blued right onto
your own daughter’s face,
I feel obliged to tell you ,
since you don’t have to see,
her eyes like a raccoon’s;
as her dead former “Father”,
free of the burden or bother ,
of any knowledge or attachment to,
what she’s managed to survive through,
yes, you still fucking linger,
a horrid and grotesque harbinger,
well-hidden,
unbidden…
somehow, forgiven through,
a darkly executed ruse,
she’s grown up somehow,
to be just like you,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat on that trouble-free brow,
you must take this lying down;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through,
it’s only fitting,
I wish you were living,
can you believe that I’d say so?
alive just long enough,
to walk in big and tough,
you always liked to think,
there’s nothing that can make,
those lying eyes of yours blink
but if you had to see,
if your eyes had to perceive,
such ruin and atrocity,
the fulfillment of your prophecy
as our own full-grown legacy,
glowing in your luminosity,
broken and battered,
just like you battered me…
the sight would make you blink.

Loop.

This was how it always began, she knew; this was the miserably familiar feeling of progressing – long and far, and with much despair on the way – blood, sweat, tears – only to eventually carry you to the gut-wrenching realization that you’re patterning a circle – a loop, and nothing more. This seat in front of her word processor, its heavy anchor wrapped mockingly around her ankle, her drink to her left and her joint in her right hand – lodged stubbornly between her index and middle fingers; her mind unsettled on the huge task at hand.
This was a painfully familiar routine, a drill that she practiced as if it were her religious motivation; This was the scout to the expedition – the quiet before the storm; this was an integral part of her every day, twice a day – maybe more. The details behind that part are irrelevant, really…the point is meant to be that she knew the truth could never be set loose. This was Déjà vu; she sat down at that over-sized LCD screen repeatedly, ready to unleash those thoughts and feelings in a indefensible barrage of details and recollections; ready to unload her burdens onto the backs of those to which they truly belonged; she’d go into this state of being that she avoided as much as she was able to – impenetrable focus on those people who were responsible for all of the tragedy, so much unnecessary tragedy.
It was somewhere in between the grips of this dark, animalistic, dangerously focused state of being, and that of the next state in this repetitive sequence, that a fiber of her identity was lost each time. The emotional roller coaster that undoubtedly followed this sub-human concentration was inevitable, although manifesting in different ways with each new appearance. Sometimes she’d cry inconsolably out of shame and guilt, or become too unraveled to refocus her attentions on this chronicle at hand; sometimes she would psychologically work herself in a rage so blinding that she would black out and regain consciousness later in the day, without memory of the hours in between; still, other times found her miserable with denial and disbelief at her circumstance – rendering her so frustrated that she would embark on a new expedition via the World Wide Web, in search of a specific legal code, government policy, or the elusive attorney that would be able to get her on track with getting justice for her only child – now grown into a disturbingly sinister young person. She sighed, the hot breath that she released from her mouth reminded her of how thirsty she was, and she lifted her ice-cold drink gingerly to her mouth for a short gulp.

I gotta cut back on this shit…for New Year’s, I will…

Despite the fizzling tingle on her tonsils as she savored the refreshing sweetness of the drink’s bite, each swallow induced a wave of pain that racked through her head like wildfire through a dry meadow.

I really need to get those teeth pulled…soon…

Her mental notes always contained some sort of self-imposed delay attached to them; as she was not so much of a go-getter these days. Her spirit seemed to have just up and decided to fly somewhere else; or perhaps it had gradually just faded away with so much time spent being abused and beaten down, she didn’t know. Physical pain was not even always a surefire way to get her to force herself into the masses, and she would only resort to seeking medical treatment during the most dire of situations, given an exceptionally high pain-threshold. She had no desire left to mingle with the human-mutants that surrounded her – those despicable and savage creatures that had once seemed so different than her. As she sat, tonguing at the sore molars in her mouth for the umpteenth time that morning, her very core was hollow to its deepest fathom of being, and she knew it beyond any doubt. And at that, she would repeatedly find herself at a total loss for…well, for pretty much anything.
Any former plans, aspirations or goals seemed comical to the remaining logic residing within the empty shell that she walked around inside of. Nothing could ever make things right again, no matter what anyone, including herself, might pull out of a sleeve in attempt to force the appearance of true justice.
Justice
This word had long ago, dug its way beneath the tangible consciousness of her being – the vague ghost which her body beheld, and had been buried – at a time that felt like lifetimes ago.
Justice
A folly that remains depicted in every corner of the national court as a foundational concept of law, liberty and decency – the proverbial snapshot of a pair of scales, polished to a reflective, brassy shine, ever-balanced perfectly against one another – affecting the virtuous and the good of humankind. The iconic symbol of trial and judgment: the biggest mockery in American history.

“Because, what a bunch of horse-shit it all is in real life, the scales of Justice?”

she spat bitterly out loud;

“…as if those scales aren’t rigged to tip in only the most evil of fashions against what is TRULY GOOD and JUST – regardless of the matter at hand…”

The heat in her face became a noticeable burn across her cheeks and forehead, and the tiny wisps of baby hair at her light blonde hairline stuck there from the increasing layer of sweat, despite several attempts to blow it away. A loud bang sounded following the rap of her hand heavily against the desk at which she sat, struggling to find any useful weapon within her once highly impressive linguistic arsenal. She hated thinking about these things – as she knew all too well what the result of her brooding would be – stagnancy and frustration, despair and self-loathing beyond description; just more of the same routine that her life seemed to be defined more completely by everyday.
This, is the Juvenile Justice System’s very essence: confusion and perpetual lack legal articulation. The agenda in this hideous arena remains increasingly different from ‘Truth or Accountability’; the so-called ‘Home of the Brave’ is chock full of the world’s biggest chicken-shit trust-fund fed politicians and useless financial backers and/or holders. Yes, ‘the Brave’ being those in positions of power and action, congressional and legislative ring-leading clowns, community social workers and those that oversee their actions, judges, psychiatrists and medical doctors, varying “specialists” of the intrinsically heinous legal arena – a collective of those “brave” enough to steal the very light from the eyes of a child in need of her mother – to disgustingly and unashamedly make a buck off of the very families to which they claim the service of Justice.
Justice… the word made her stomach do cartwheels and the cavity-borne headache return. And, this was how it always played out for her. She became venomous then, an emotion so familiar and easily recognized by her character that its appearance onto the scene of her chaotic existence hardly attracted attention anymore; she forgot to breathe for a few, drawn out moments while she stared blankly at the screen, waiting for the right words to come; waiting to finally begin the report of despicable truths that had ultimately ruined the lives of her immediate family.
Nothing…nothing…
The anger began its bubbling within her every nano-particle, frustrated and exacerbated by the lack of stimulus. She allowed the thoughts to come to her awareness, knowing from experience that the attempt to shut them out would be a futile one; experiencing the anticipated rush of a variety of uncontrollable emotion and perception, unleashing the memories intentionally now in feeble hope that the raw force associated with them would somehow miraculously be guided onto the screen – that this release will open the gateways to her collected verbal arsenal, the most lasting of any known weapons of war.
In a former life, she had been a poet – a spotlight verbal violinist in the most well-known operas – somebody who was able to change things, touch people, and create inspiration and awe through her exquisitely procured and ever-growing vocabulary. The details that her stories offered were vast and all-encompassing; each piece’s poetry was a feat that she carried, attached to a tether at the end of stick –exacting complete control over its every directional move – she contoured its path, essentially; so influential and dominant was she in the play of words in written form, that sometime – long ago, but for reasons unclear to her now – she began to take the gift for granted. And now, that gift had all but left her totally without. She had stupidly allowed herself to slip into the realm of self-righteousness: an unforgiving and deceptive place from which a human with a spirit will return without anything at all to love, to be loved for. Hollowed out and superficial, she had returned to write the chronicle at hand – the most important one she could ever create. The expressive art that she had beheld since her first memories began did not return along with her, however – leaving her in a perpetual state of the most torturous deficiency and need.
Need…
The word made the corners of her navy blue eyes wrinkled as they shrunk tightly into a squint, with all of the co-dependent implications attached to its ugly, four-letter face.
THIS NEEDS TO STOP…
Tomorrow is another day, and if she sees tomorrow – she will return to this drill and try again.

Chance.

I’ve written in the past of my professionally given label of “a medical anomaly” when it comes to my physiology/immunology/genetics. This handle was given to me via a Stanford University medical conference luncheon, in which one of my former doctors highlighted my case in his widely received presentation on ‘reconstructive maxiofacial tissue surgery and uncommon obstacles’. Since that moment in time, most, if not all, of my loosely interwoven healthcare team have adopted the name for my reference. In fact, the nickname seems to be a kind of industry-driven joke from which all humor is lost on me, completely…but what the fuck do I know?
But, I digress.
One of the elements rendering me as such is something known as “Raynaud’s Phenomenon” – a multitude of micro-vascular spasms occurring simultaneously in the digits (and the nose for some people, as well –though I am not one of those thank the Gods…) affecting gangrene and, oftentimes, the loss of one or more dead fingers or toes. You’ll note the word “phenomenon” in the title of the ailment that I foster; this is because there are TWO forms of this thing: one, the most common type, being called “Raynaud’s Disease”, is a chronic and life-altering disease that appears in exceptionally cold environments and/or in the users of regular operation of machinery such as… let’s say – a jackhammer, or the likes. Some doctors even say that this condition is exacerbated by “stress” (in which case, I’m fucked!!!).
I am a beach bum in California with no prior jackhammer experience; so when I was first (and finally, after many initial months of painfully spreading gangrene in all ten of my shriveled toes) diagnosed in 2003, I was defined as having the more difficult type of the ailment known as a “phenomenon”, based solely on the elusive cause and randomly occurring symptoms. The archaic doctor who was on call at the ER where I was FINALLY properly diagnosed and treated called every physician and support staff into the pocket room where I sat with bare feet on an exam table and said to the group of about twenty young med-school graduates,
“This is something you may never see again, so I want to make sure to share this…this Raynaud’s phenomenon; do you all see the skin blanching that happens when the tissue is prompted?”
He pinched and prodded my raisin-esque toes to reveal an odd renewal of color immediately beneath my skin there: they began to oddly shift from black – to dark blue – to a deep, angry red – to a yellowing, white-ish color wherever they were pressed.
“Oooooh ahhhhh.” the young students all cooed.
Very riveting; just give me some pills so my toes don’t fall off, please. Anyway, thankfully the old quack knew his shit and I was finally given the gift of balance and mobility back – not to mention, I was able to keep every toe in its original form.
I have been stricken three times by this “phenomenon” thus far in life; the second time was upon my landing at the Oahu International Airport on the most recent real vacation I took in 2005. The key is in Angina treatment, typically a vasodilator to thin the blood and break up the tiny spasms so far away from my heart. I am currently to the point not being to balance myself or walk normally due to loss of feeling in my feet, especially the right one. My toes have already shriveled quite totally and are shedding entire layers of epidermis as a snake sheds scales – fully intact toe-sized chunks that are being held to my feet with bandages and lots of salve. Warmth only creates a swelling that becomes so uncomfortably shiny and plump that heat offers no help at this point, either. I finally sucked it up and went back to get a script for some good ol’ Nifedipin.

…And, while I shuffled myself down an endless corridor to the pharmacy hidden in a basement of the hospital in the middle of the night – last night – guess who I spied in a bed, unconscious from an attempted suicide by means of drug overdose?
You called it; there was the one and only Boo, my only child.

Sunday.

It’s Sunday; and sometime in early December…I hate the holidays.

I have been in a notably embittered state of being as of late; I wake up in a shit mood and spend my day feeling either numb or way too much emotion, shuffle my feet around and paint makeup on my face, do my normal routine of being a pissed-off and resentful human being for x amount of hours – before I will eventually (and still angrily) find my way to bed and fitfully fall asleep (Gods willing).

I am at home; I am surrounded by cheering men; men who honestly have very little concern in life outside of Fantasy Football rankings and Christmas shopping for the so-called “difficult” women with whom each has settled down with.

I am somewhere I did not really anticipate being, somehow; despite the situation I have been held hostage inside of (in the context of Boo) for all of these painful and dehumanizing years… I somehow never genuinely considered the possibility of such a circumstance as that which I now find myself: a place where motherhood does not live; a place where years of invested time, love, energy and hope can be found strangled into lifelessness and shriveling up in the unforgiving heat, a place where the thought of my only child makes my stomach feel sick in the most literal sense.

When I look at Boo’s face, I now see only her father’s there; his features stand out so strongly against the muted ones I contributed…there is actually very, very little of me anywhere in here at all. I keep finding myself thinking about abstract and unimportant trivia when it comes to the unhappy ending of this story; things like:

  • How the abusive, violent, backstabbing, murderous and psychopathic piece of trash of a father was able to imprint so many horrible characteristics and traits upon her without hardly ever knowing her;
  • How chillingly similar everything about the two of them has turned out to be, despite EVERYTHING I tried in order to make sure that couldn’t happen;

The thought that seems to be stuck like a piece of chewed up gum to the forefront of my exhausted mind is constantly buzzing inside my ear, asking me

“How is any of this even possible?”

There comes no response of course, just the same query over and over until my head hurts.

I have a seething and roiling hatred growing inside of me that feels bad, and is shocking in its severity. I feel disgust over so many things in the world, especially in my own little corner of it; I am lost and aimless, emotionally numb and going through motion after motion. I am turned off. I am tuned out. I am shut down. It comes to this crazy thought every time, the one in which I have sold everything I own worth anything and just POOF! disappeared into the masses of the urban jungles somewhere, where? I don’t know or care. I have been gradually been ridding myself of all the boxes full of hope that I have lugged around with me for the years Boo was gone: craft supplies, old drawings and school papers of hers, clear tubs of pens and pencils and crayons and scrap-booking shit for days. I won’t ever need or use any of it; that time has passed for me now.

The freedom attached to suddenly not being anyone’s Mom feels alien, even as it feels okay on some days, almost tolerable. Other days, I wake up with both middle fingers locked straight upwards; other times, I just want to die.

Unfixable.

I know that I do not get the same consideration from my own daughter when it comes to “cause and effect” that my mother continues to be shown, and somehow always has been shown, in spite of our tattered history. When my little brother killed himself, my mom’s way to cope with the blow was to try and erase him from her memory altogether: an element between she and I that hung bitterly in the stale air between us for years. She never speaks of him; she never lets me talk about him in any context in her presence without either full-blown freaking out, or changing the subject with blatancy sharp enough to leave a mark.
I have come to accept and understand over time that this has been the only way she has been able to continue on with her own existence after losing a child to suicide in the way that she did; and am only now beginning to see that this response was initially not one of choice for her. It was the effect attached to specific causes: those of profound emptiness, loss and failure. One of the most difficult things about coming to grips with acceptance surrounding my own child – and my own loss, emptiness and failure – has always been the absence of so many points of reference for me. I don’t know what a mother “should” look like or act like to her child; I have only ever winged it and did what felt right when it came to Boo.
Now, it has become unarguable that most (if not all) of those things were not right; no denying that I was an inadequate mom or else she would never have grown up to become what she did. But, I also think of a lot of other facts and truths that surround us such as how I also had an inadequate mom. I had a mom who was a violent and unstable drunk during my childhood; she was always high on drugs also, and kept like-minded company. My father fought tooth and nail to keep us protected from her unpredictable nature; she was painted very differently than I could possibly come close to being depicted by my daughter. Or was she?
Granted, I was not the type of mom who hit – I never even spanked Boo besides to SWAT at her backside with gentle care when she was a toddler; our experiences with a mother in the big, bad world were most certainly very different in almost every way. I am nurturing because my mom was the opposite; I was attentive because my mom seemingly forgot all about me and my brothers after we were born; I was protective and overbearing because of those reasons, too. I was so involved with her life as much as possible: a yard duty at her elementary school, the PTA, class mom, field trips, etc. I exhausted myself at all times with her IEP and the constant red tape around getting her through school because of her behavioral issues. I admit that she overwhelmed me at times, but I always wanted best for her, I never got any satisfaction from her struggles or tears like my mom did with me. We had very different mothers, indeed.
Now comes my point:
I had a father.
Not just any father, either – I was blessed with an exceptionally special Dad (and a long line of older brothers).
Boo had…well, we all know what she had, don’t we? Boo had the Ripper for a father in the slice of time that she had one in her life at all, before he tried to murder her mother and then was gone to prison before dying on the inside of those walls…Boo never had a Dad, hardly a father. I have concluded that it is this (very often overlooked) factor in the comparisons people (including myself) make between me and my daughter’s characteristic traits that defines the essences of those differences down to the nano-fiber. When I think of what my own existence could have and likely would have been like in the absence of my Dad, my knees often feel weakened by the thought alone. Now, I imagine actually living that reality from one day to the next like Boo must…and yes, I see.
I know that in many ways, I haven’t failed as Boo’s mother in the years I was allowed to be her mom; but in this one major and unfixable way, I failed her immeasurably.

Puppeteer.

The drill never changes, if looked at from a very broad perspective:
my parents give in and allow themselves to be further abused and mistreated while I desperately try to distance myself from the situation (because I will ALWAYS eventually be defeated by the helplessness attached to it), before the proverbial explosion takes place once again.
My daughter knows the drill all too well, also; which is the only reason why it works out to her own benefit over and over, without fail; she knows that when she has created a rift and I withdraw from her obnoxious bullshit (while my parents do not), it is at that time that she must strike and strike hard in order to keep the distance in place between then and I. She is well aware of the plethora of ways to manipulate people; she is already a seasoned veteran at doing this as a means of survival. She has honestly been manipulating adult professionals from various backgrounds and specialties in the system since she began counseling at age 6, so the puppeteering of her own grandparents must feel like something she could do with her eyes closed if she wanted to.
I know when she is busy digging down the trench between me and my parents; I know because she holds them hostage through her behaviors (just like she used to do to me in the months leading up to her placement in a “treatment facility” for those very characteristics. I know because I stop hearing from my mom at all – due to the fact that my daughter will have by now painted my mom into a psychological corner, and in turn my mom has been enabling too many things to make excuses for. I know because of a sudden but sharp slice through the fabric of my own meager reality: the silence replacing my mother’s voice in the background of things that creeps its way back into my daily routine in the absence of her constant play by play updates. All of the things that I always wish would cease to exist about my relationship with my mom seemingly CEASE TO EXIST when my daughter is in the picture – and up to no good.

Set On Fire.

I found out about it this morning upon waking up to look at my phone (set on silent overnight, as per my usual routine); and I will say that my heart dropped down into my belly somewhere and hasn’t yet returned to its proper place.
I groggily read just a few snippets of the slew of text messages sent throughout the night by my Mom; catching things like:

“Your father (by this, she means my step-father) went to get Boo downtown and hasn’t come back…”,
Or:

“He’s STILL not home, I’m worried…”,
Or:

“It’s been THREE HOURS NOW! I have no car, and I’m going crazy…”
Or finally:

“His phone just goes straight to voicemail…”

It was just the day before yesterday that I sat out on the front porch with him to escape my mother’s  hollering into her Bluetooth inside (she still doesn’t grasp the notion of the other person being able to hear her fine if she just speaks in a normal tone); that I verbalized some very haunting visions to him in a foretelling plea for his logical side to come out and hear me…in total vain, it turns out.

Boo has been consistently dishonest and destructive to my parents ever since that dreaded moment in which my mother was struck by some gods-awful notion that she had to see Boo through the next few surgeries until the tracheotomy is removed and she can speak naturally again; she has brought with her presence in their home nothing but grief and disarray – dope fiend maneuvers, and all things associated with a fucking street hooker’s lifestyle, in essence. My parents are so naive…sickeningly naive…naive from age, apparently. Because, the clueless and vulnerable old folks that each has evolved to represent these days were NOT the two people who I had around during my teen-aged years, by a long shot.

  • Boo’s despicable thievery has, thus far, totaled up to at least: $3,500.00 (yes, you read that correctly) stolen out of my sleeping father’s wallet in the wee morning hours while she was awake and whacked out on drugs; but, there have been other instances as well of stolen cash in much smaller amounts, too.
  • She has stolen family heirloom jewelry (oddly enough, her father literally stole pieces of the exact same set almost 20 years ago) from my mother’s room while being left alone at their house during the workday.
  • She stole ALL of my mother’s medicines (a very notably sized plethora of pills including but not limited to Oxycontin, various tranquilizers, psyche meds, and the handful of different medicines that my mom NEEDS for rheumatoid arthritis and lupus.
  • She stole my father’s entire wallet; as well as a stun gun that was deep inside of one of her bureau drawers.

In a nutshell, she has been horribly ungrateful and disrespectful, she has remained in constant violation of the home that they have, once again, opened up to her in her time of need. Last night should have undoubtedly been “the straw” for both of them…

My father drove downtown last night to pick Boo up at the drop of a dime when she called, claiming she had been punched in the face and her phone had been stolen (I live in the silicon valley, a live and wide awake place where downtown isn’t welcoming at nighttime to the average person); 

when he arrived to the place she had directed to meet her at, he was beaten nearly to death by five grown men who appeared from nowhere – only seconds before Boo suddenly appeared, as well. One of the cowards even went into his car and found his ginormous Maglite flashlight, then proceeded to beat him in his face with it until my dad went unconscious in the street. I was not there…I do not know for myself any of the minor details surrounding this heinousness; but I do know that it changes everything – forever…for ME at least.

My “Whatever They Are”, Exactly…

So…over this past couple of months, I have been swallowing the unwelcome and unhappy ending to the story of ‘Me and Boo’.

ladonnaNothing about this process has been comfortable for me by any means, but I guess it has proven to be the natural order of my own existence; and so…I am trying my best to endure. It is a “one moment at  time” gig so far…

cameron ferris buellerI can vividly recall my own trains of thought in the past:

Stupid and blindly faithful belief in the notion that somehow and some way, Boo would miraculously recover from so many fucked up circumstances, and find her way back to sanity and a desire for normalcy…I have been feeding myself bullshit like this forever – since she was first sent away…and it is almost comical now to think back on the things that I denied myself of accepting for so long.

nicole eye rollBut, now, here I am…and nothing makes sense to me – for me – in terms of the future ahead and what I am supposed to do with it. It’s like someone finally found the restart button now after all this time and pushed it when I wasn’t as ready as I thought I was to start over again. In truth, I’ve wished for a fresh start with EVERYTHING for so long that I am stuck on stupid in the face of its arrival. Life doesn’t wait on anybody…and I have no choice but to pick that bitch up and run, right?

nows the timeSo, I have wiped the picture clean of the drama and unhealthy bullshit that has sadly come to define everything about my own, personal adult life – as an affect of such an emotionally unstable and unhealthy offspring; I have not wavered in my choice to do so, either – and I will not waver ever again in this context…I am sucked dry of the forces needed to interact with it anymore at all.

ermaAt first, it was just like it’s been any other time I tried to make a clean break from the living Hell surrounding my only child and her ongoing destruction: I felt weakened by the very aspect of her existence, I felt controlled and dominated by the constant lack of any input or influence on her lifestyle choices…I have felt that way since she was old enough to talk, in essence; and somewhere along the way, I lost sight of what is important in MY OWN passage through this world. I allowed myself to become so entangled with such a negative element (in this case, my own daughter), that I lost track of the things that I personally stand to represent in this fucked up world.

the rulesIn reality, at the end of the day, everyday – I am quite different in nature from my child, in every possible way; and, as long as I am ending my own days under the spell of the lifestyle and code that SHE lives by, each one of those days has been spent in absolute vain and wastefulness. skeletor arrgI’m over it. I am over the confusion and guilt and self-loathing and tears…I am over the shock and surprise of the despicable things my own child has come to stand for…

I realize that the stark contrast between Boo and I has been weighing like an anchor around my ankle for so fucking long now that I have gradually failed to even see it there or feel it’s drag.

nothin but punks fridayIt’s finally sinking into my thick skull that there’s NOTHING I can do for her, besides to enable her – which, I refuse to do any longer now…so the math is done and the answer is apparent and comprehensive; I need to just move on with myself.

move the fuck onWhich, is a notion that I have struggled mightily with all along when it comes to Boo…a factor that is only becoming more obvious to me with each layer of its removal. But, as the light gets brighter down there somewhere at the end of whatever tunnel I am inside of, I can see the scars stitched up in my own heart and mind; and I feel something akin to “HOPE” again for my own emotional status.

Not hope for Boo…not hope for my long-evaporated, little family…not hope that balances atop of any unrealistic or unreasonable goals or motivations…just hope that I can and will get through the initial discomfort of suddenly NOT being anyone’s Mom anymore…

piper hang up n cryI have hope that I can hang up the bullshit and revive my true self, and my true motivations in my own existence…I have hope that I can surprise everyone, including myself, with my own strength and perseverance through this darkness…to fight.

servant of mordorI will be honest and admit that I have been inside of the darkest place I know of, mentally, as of late…I have struggled to get out of bed in the morning and cried myself to sleep at night…I randomly quit my long-time job and stopped returning phone calls…I have been resigned to sadness and loss…I have eaten myself with guilt and self-doubt…I have wished for death in a very serious tongue…I have cursed each and every God I know.

jane drunk on horseBut in the end, I am still just ME…no amount of pain or discouragement can break my spirit, even when I want that to be the outcome; I am simply built that way, and I accept that much now. I guess right now is a time for me to figure out what comes next for ME and ONLY ME. I have recognized the fact that there will be NOTHING to come next unless I am selfish for a while and say “Fuck You” to the unnecessary drama and unhealthy bullshit.

pine exp fuck you sirAnd THAT’s what I have to say for now.

No Longer MY Loss.

So this is how it ends for you…after all you have managed to survive against all odds; you are going to be your own demise in the end. You have missed today’s surgery, because you disappeared into the night last weekend with the promise of returning on time to take care of your own physical needs…once again, you have highlighted for the world: your complete and total lack of any self-respect or desire to take control of your issues. I can’t say that I was honestly expecting you to show up for something that only a responsible individual would have the nerve to do; I recognize that despite your fearlessness, you have a very low-functioning ability to actually handle yourself in the Real World. Perhaps, that is why I had already thought ahead and cancelled your time in the O.R. today; because I knew deep down that you not only lack the care or concern for your own health – but for anyone else’s also; and so I made sure that whomever was in line got to go in your place this morning for their’ surgery. I wonder if you ever consider anything outside of yourself in any context at all…like, do you think about what you are psychologically doing to your grandparents? Or me? Or anyone who has had the humanity to give you another PASS since the most recent Return from the Dead? How many times might your peanut sized brain expect to be forgiven and allowed to return for more destruction to be left in your undoubtedly impending wake? You obviously harbor a completely unreasonable idea of who you are, nor have you a fairly accurate perception of anyone who has been fixed in your life, thus far; while you have been blessed with a family that has been patient and understanding to the best of its ability, you have done nothing but shame yourself and everyone attached to you.
They say that psychopaths have no shame or fear built into the mechanisms that make most people “human”; they say that there is a total lack in the ability to feel for others, or for the part – themselves even. I can say with certainty at this point that you fit that psychopathic profile to a T, as did your father. Any creature with even half of a brain cell would have learned some very lasting Life Lessons after surviving what you have come through…yet, here you are doing the same old shit and another year older, somehow. I have accepted the loss of you, Boo…I know that I am no longer anyone’s Mom, and to be honest there is something disturbingly refreshing about such a notion for me these days; but you still exist (for now, at least)…and I can’t grasp the concept of your choices in regard to HOW you choose to make your existence be like. I cannot feel sorry for you anymore…not after so many times finding you with your entire hand in the fire before it’s anywhere near healed from the last time(s). To pity you only means that you are the victim…and that is NOT always the case, is it? You have been foolish in every element of your life to the point of disbelief; you have essentially shit away any access to the Trust Fund that I fought tooth and nail to ensure through a Civil Lawsuit – money that would easily get you set up in a “normal” scenario, if you had the sense or maturity to just fall in line long enough to get your ducks in a row…but that’s too much for you, even.
I don’t feel sorry that you live on the street and sell your ass to get by, not when I know that it IS NOT NECESSARY AT ALL and you CHOOSE that lifestyle in the face of normalcy and/or self-sufficiency. I don’t wish for you to return like I used to anymore either…because the bonds have been broken already and I now harbor mostly a complete lack of understanding or tolerance for your behaviors and actions. I will not allow my parents to die in brokenness and sadness, missing money and heirlooms that you stole without a second thought as to THEIR existences. What kind of person steals from their grandparents, anyway… not to mention, brings friends home to steal from their grandparents, also? I think we both KNOW what kind of person does that kind of dirt…and I think we both know that I am NOT that person, and never could be. Can you say the same? I didn’t think so…

None of it is MY loss anymore, you know? You’re an adult now, remember? Mrs. Big Badass whose wanted to be grown for so long now, and for what? Ain’t nothing changed, you still do the same immature and despicable stuff that you did as juvenile delinquent, don’t you? How’s that adult thing looking now, kid?

All My Dirt.

I am randomly typpling (type babbling), yes, I know this… my personal Microsoft Word screen seriously could fuck me with all the secrets and truths it has seen at my hand, fuck it though…transparency is the new thing isn’t it?

I have given up my appearance altogether, I suppose…couldn’t tell you when the last time I looked in a mirror at myself…hmmmm…the possible causes behind this fact aren’t lost on me, either…
Something is happening inside of me again; although I couldn’t possibly describe any of what those “somethings” may actually be in the big picture of things; and I am not trying to find any way to describe it – there’s just a slew of mental data on upload at present; and my mental data down-link seems to be broken, too. There’s just a fuck-ton of shit coming in, and nothing moving aside to make room for it; if that even makes sense to anyone reading this.

Failure:
Failure is something has come to define my every moment of each passing day for me; it began slowly when Boo was put into “residential treatment” almost a decade ago and only snowballed from that point on. The many things that have subsequently gone horribly awry since then have accumulated into a vast and freezing cold tomb; each instance of my own perceived failings stacking up against the previous until the room shrinks. Failure has been something that I struggle with regularly, and I often lose the fight with it because of its overwhelming and constant presence. I go to a psychiatrist based on this failure (and its many facets and faces); he repeatedly instructs me to “just let it go”…
Abandonment:
Abandonment is another key element that is deeply embedded in my marred psychological profile; this element is born of my inability to “just let it go” when it came to my inter-personal relationships with parents during infancy and childhood (most notably a then ever-absent mother). It has mutated the human being that I was born as into a different version of who I might have been in a “healthy and/or intact family setting”; over time, it has warped my perception of others who I feel any closeness to – a mechanism of the emotionally fearful and unstable. I am extremely insecure inter-personally, and it only becomes an exacerbated symptom when I give two shits about the other person involved. I am afraid of people in general; not in a physically cowed way though…I am terrified of interacting with others because of the emotional traumas that inevitably attach themselves to each and every experience with closeness to another human being (or the socially mutated versions of one).

Truth:
Truth is another crucial piece of who I am from one moment to the next; it has come to burn in my veins like molten lava these days, and growing increasingly more important to every nano-thought in my head. Acceptance of truth is part of this element; and as painful as this aspect often is for me, in my own experiences, the truth carries weight that is undeniably addictive to my heart, spirit and mind somehow…
Perhaps after all, “the truth shall set me free”.

Teeter.

I have come to several understandings over these past few weeks while I have been MIA from my blog; I do not fully comprehend every element of every understanding I have found and tucked into a mental pocket – on the contrary, I have only been collecting these understandings to sort through on another day.
Boo was released from the hospital a week ago pending her next major surgery at Stanford (the one that focuses on the scar tissue building up at the base of her vocal chords and keeping from speaking on her own); she came home to my parents’ house because that’s where she wanted to go. My parents were gracious and forgiving enough to allow it (at the time that the decision was made, everyone was so desperate to keep Boo from returning to the track and many acceptations were made as a result of that desperation); it only took a matter of hours for Boo to begin to fall back into her old routines after being released from the hospital: wanting to go here or there on a whim, spending countless hours on my phone with any one of the stupid people she calls “friends”, being secretive and sneaky, dishonesty, shadiness, and eventually stealing again, too. My parents made her leave and I tried to let her come with me – but she proceeded to steal from Dice, my roommate right away. I can’t allow her to spread her affected instabilities to the realm of my ONLY safe haven; she had to leave my house as well.

She hasn’t changed; despite all of it, there isn’t even a slight shift into a more mature and/or personally responsible creature in regard to who Boo continues to be.

The thing that has driven the biggest and longest standing wedge between my daughter and me in more recent years has been BOO. Boo is 110% incapable of owning her faults, much less her personal actions…it is increasingly more impossible to try and reason with her at any given time because she has this obnoxious entitlement issue that causes her to fly off the handle defensively whenever she fucks up – which is often. As soon as she becomes aware that I’m onto her, or as soon as I call her out on anything shady or dishonest that she does, she blows up and leaves (especially now that she can play her “I’m eighteen” card). It’s always been this way though, even when she was very young – her best defense has always been a good offense. And she makes certain that by the time she’s ready to come back into one of our homes, we are so happy she’s alive and safe that one of us will bend and let her in.
I am sick of it. It is unhealthy. I see what it is doing to my parents again, mentally and spiritually and financially, and I can’t let it continue. The question now is:
How will I clarify myself on this issue for all to understand and perpetually respect? Is that even possible?
I will not allow my child to hold my family hostage through her outrageous behaviors anymore; things have changed for me since she turned eighteen, also, and it is a card that I can now play as well. But where is the line that defines dead and cold from wounded and bleeding out slowly in the snow? All that know for sure is that I will not spend a single year more of my own life in feeling as if my very existence is hinged upon Boo’s behavior and the things that her behaviors create in the lives of those around her. There was a point when it dawned on me: how her father continues to abuse me through her very actions…I escaped her father and have risen above his reach, such abuse cannot continue in any context.
At what point does it become okay to admit how unhealthy my own child has been to my own livelihood and how destructive she continues to be in the midst of the tiny village I have managed to construct and maintain in her absence?

The Struggle.

All that is happening now does, indeed, go back to the incident in Arizona. The surgeries that she has already undergone and recovered from have each been in attempt to separate scar tissue that has grown around Boo’s trachea from being cinched by a belt for nearly two days; also – her inability to speak has finally been de-mystified as well. The same thing is happening at the base of her vocal chords, as a result of scar tissue build-up, only the vocal cords have been permanently affected by residues left from the chemicals that Boo had been forced to drink during her captivity. The doctors have done what they can without sending her to a specialist for what is considered as “delicate surgery”; the next step to come.
Within the month, she will be going to Stanford for such things…and I have little doubt behind her strength or ability to deal with it. She remains in care still – a milestone in and of itself; she is bored beyond description, covered in bed sores, and must be feeling pretty low…yet, she hasn’t left again. Her little boyfriend (the one who do not necessarily like so much but cannot deny his humanity in comparison to the other men she has surrounded herself with in the past) comes to visit her now; I know that makes her feel like the world isn’t ending, after all. Anything that helps her to stay put and ride out the road ahead through her physical recovery – I am on board with it.
She has grown up so much…in such a short time…she is so jaded and darkened by her own experiences, that I watch her struggle with simply being cared for by another human being…it’s rough. But she’s letting it happen – as hard as it may be on her.

20150904_140004-1

Digestion.

At this very moment in time I am so overcome with love for Boo. There’s not a particular reason why besides that she’s my daughter. And despite it all, she’s so brave and so strong. Even if she has a complete lack of her own self-worth…she is beautiful.
My best friend Sam (more of a guardian angel the gods have blessed me with for whatever reason, I don’t ask questions) helped me to understand a key element of this nightmare situation a few weeks back…and yes its only barely setting in now.
She said,

“Babe, the Boo you are waiting for is not going to come back. She’s gone.”

Admittedly, this was NOT an easy conversation for me to digest; and luckily I have a best friend who understands my slow computation process; part of her likely expected me to explode at such a statement. But between me and my best friend, anything can be said without such lingering negative affect – and so the story goes. After my conversation with my best friend, I went through some different things: types of mourning, grief, and acceptance of a loss so deep that it cannot be treated or cured.
During all those trials and emotional roller-coasters, things continued to play out with the current situation surrounding Boo and her status, reinforcing the fears and sadness and loss. And then, something happened. The last time Boo was found unconscious and unresponsive – right before they gave her the first tracheotomy – my perspective and/or perception had shifted somehow.
Now, anytime I spend with Boo is different, but not in a bad way. I do somehow see her as a different girl from my own, yet, she is still my daughter. And, all I can do is try my best to be a good mother to the Boo before me today. She will not be the things I have been hoping to see her become…now at least, maybe never. But should the Boo I have today survive through this, there’s hope for a relationship with her, instead. Which is good enough for me.

Re-inflated.

Apparently, she thought that walking downstairs and meeting “a friend” at the hospital was safe enough.
All I know is that within the hour of her leaving the hospital, her trach cap had been taken away from her and she was unable to speak and barely able to breathe. She spent almost 36 hours away from medical care with a brand new, unsettled tracheotomy that needed attention.
She has returned now; out of sheer necessity of course…and she has further complicated her own condition by allowing the trach to become clogged and dirty. Now they will need to replace the original trach with a new one – another surgery, another gamble with her life.

Sidenotes.

I’m talking with a boyfriend of hers,
he’s one I never liked…
but since she has self-destructed again,
he has fallen to despair,
unsure and confused of the “whys” and “how’s”,
shocked by the daring gamble she lives by,
“Why does she do this?”
“She hates herself underneath her stuck-up front, kid…
life has never given her a reason for anything more.”
sigh
sigh
why?
why?
Why?

We just don’t know.

Deflation.

“Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper.”
~ W. Rawley

When you have a daughter like mine, this is the element that destroys you:
The incurable death wish that transcends even a hole in her own throat; Boo left the hospital last night at some point with an unknown couple and has not returned.
Granted, it is her M.O. to disappear from a recovery unit in the hospital, she has always done that. But never before has she had something as serious as a tracheotomy to worry about. She was notably struggling to breathe in the hospital – what is she going through out there? I don’t understand…I don’t believe it…but I am forced to accept the fact that she intended it. She apparently walked out by her own free will once again. She likes to think that she knows everything and has it all under control, somehow…and…well, we have all seen how well she keeps things under control…
So once again, as of the instant I woke up this morning:
My heart has disappeared to an unknown location outside of my body but still pumps and beats painfully.

inked us 2015

Today.

Today I helped my somewhat coherent daughter take her first “shower” in ten days; it was the first time I have seen firsthand – the residual extent of her wounds from being kidnapped and tortured in Arizona…it was horrendous for me; but it was like heaven for her to feel clean.
I shampooed and conditioned her now shorn off hair; I found a deep and permanent divot left in the back of her skull from a hammer blow: a half-dollar sized strawberry colored sphere smack dead in the center of the back of her head. My throat tightened up so badly I began to wonder if I might start to hyperventilate.
All over her shoulders, arms, belly, chest and back are huge burn scars as long as the sword that was used to leave them; her arm has been pinned in three places, she’s been given a tracheotomy as a result of 1) Being forced to drink caustic chemicals; and 2) Having a belt cinched tightly round her neck for almost two days.
At one point, I looked down at the floor and asked what the mess what all about; don’t they have a janitor who comes and sweeps the floors? She said yes there is a janitor, and he never cuts corners on her room – she raised her feet both up in the air across from me and I saw the bottoms of her feet for the first time…I had not been made aware of what they had done to the bottoms of both her feet…my heart just hurt so bad. Her feet were burned the worst of all…they burned the bottoms of her feet into mush. What I was seeing on the floor was simply from her feet shedding skin layers endlessly. I just didn’t even know what to say to that…I didn’t say anything; just rubbed lotion on them for her.
She was laughing, smiling; still somehow trying to glow from underneath the mess on the surface…today was a very emotional day…but she’s coming around we hope.

Childhood Psychopathy.

twd psycho micaI am simply telling my own truth as I see it:

here’s what my life as a mother has consisted of – or the closest thing to my experience…TRUTH.

Article on Childhood Psychopathy

Still On Process.

In yet, another, whirlwind of dramatics and emotional shock, I am martyred by one or all of the others in this fucking hopeless situation. I am writing my commentary prior to a quoted copy the text message I received upon waking up yesterday morning – out of the fucking blue from my perception of things…I haven’t spoken to Boo since she was in the hospital in Arizona after she has been kidnapped, tortured and raped. It had been directly following that final contact that she decided (for no apparent reason outside of boredom?) to turn right around and make up some horrible bullshit story about our conversation. The story that she told my parents was nothing but lies, of course; and for once I had truth on my side, as they had both been standing right with me during the last time I was on the phone with Boo, so they knew that she was totally fabricating a story about me that was untrue as it gets. Neither of them say anything to her however, and so the whole thing served as just one more wedge Boo has put between she and I, and in my opinion: she does these types of things to me spitefully…there is just no other explanation.
So, unsurprisingly, she wound up in the hospital again two nights ago (I only received this information from my mother who promised to keep me posted) with “breathing difficulty”. She was close to being throttled to death at a tortuously slow pace with a belt by the man who kidnapped her only a month ago, she smokes methamphetamine like it’s her sport, she doesn’t eat right or take care of herself…so it really didn’t come as shock to me when she found herself having issues swallowing and/or breathing after another few days’ hard running; I didn’t react as if she were on her death bed somewhere. It has become rather difficult for me to even feel anything anymore, when it comes to Boo and her constant self-endangerment. I know that is awful, but it’s true…I almost feel as if any time or energy that I spend on her is just that – an expenditure…and one that I don’t have the means to cover after so many trips to the fucking bank with it.
Anyway, my mother went to see her without even updating me of the actual hospital or anything first; and proceeded to let Boo use her phone for whatever reason. On that phone, is EVERY text message that I have ever sent my mother (because my mom has no scruples at all when it comes to anyone else’ privacy etc.) and Boo read every last one. Needless to say, there were some recent messages that were not the definition of endearment in regard to her (SHE BEHAVES LIKE A FUCKING STREET RAT AND SHAMES ME REGULARLY); she hurt her own feelings by snooping through somebody else’s private shit, in essence.
I will be honest and admit that I DID send my mother a text during a volley we were having that pertained directly to the totally random bullshit song and dance that Boo made up after she and I last got off the phone. It hurts me deeply to be the first one that my ONLY child strikes at without a second thought; it is the most disheartening and discouraging notion to find out that your child badmouths you regularly – especially a child you have poured so very much into. I was hurt by the revival of Boo’s old ways regarding the lies she insists on telling about me, unwarranted lies that are damaging and lasting. I made the statement of:

“She is a hateful and spiteful little creature for telling you guys that…”

FROM: Boo
TO: Me

“I’m a spiteful and hateful creature…. You know what fuck you because a real mom would have been there for me when I was almost dying no matter what the situation is or was but, you’re selfish and you don’t want to be in my life this is just a way to get attention. I can’t believe you I wish you would just act like a Mom and not a sorry excuse of a sick person you blow my fucking mind you are crazy I’m glad you talk so much shit about me you are crazy and to be honest you need help but you already know that you don’t have any room to talk about me because you are even worse and is crazy how you can talk about your daughter like that when she’s in the hospital hanging by a thread you are sick and I can’t believe I still have love for you good luck in life and keep my name and life out of your mouth.”

The Slow Drink.

One element of the strained relationship that I have never written about before on this blog is that which makes up the dynamic between myself and my parents (my mother and step-father) and Boo; the reasons behind this were self-serving, as the depth of detail that would be involved in trying to write down this dynamic is daunting to consider. In order to write about the current status of things now, however, I must do a summary of that dynamic first:
• Upon my return from a long-time in-patient stay at the hospital, she had changed (this much, I HAVE written about in the past on this blog) – changed in the sense of her overall characteristics, personality and functioning behaviors – she had become “spoiled” in the classic sense as a result of residing with her doting grandparents for too long without any real ground rules.
• It didn’t surprise me as much as it hurt me to quickly learn that when given a choice in the matter, Boo would unfailingly and repeatedly choose to be with her grandparents (instead of me) – as she could control the situation to a disturbing degree when she was with them, as opposed to when she was with me.
• A wedge was built between all of us.
• Boo’s “splitting” set the stage for the years to come.

By the time I had come to terms with Boo’s preference of my parents over me, it was because I was unable to uphold the rules and culture of my home when she was at home; her disregard and disrespect for my expectations as well as my consistency when it came to cause and effect, and any attached repercussions that she might have at a given time. She never had consequences with my parents: they let her run all over them and always found reasons to excuse her behaviors – to the point of sheer enablement. It had become so bad that even prior to Boo’s being put into a “residential treatment facility”, our family was at constant odds in regard to what to do with her. They always accused me of being too hard on her; and I still stand firm that they were detrimentally lenient with an unruly child.
I hate to say this, but everything that has become…everything that our so-called family has disintegrated away to…I had flashes of it years ago; I saw it coming – or at least the very clearly represented possibility of such an un-solvable puzzle as that in which we now reside. As time wore on, Boo began to steal from them; by the time she was eight years old, she had already broken into my step-dad’s safe and stolen close to $1,000.00 over the gradual period of about a year or so. When I learned of this, I exploded and went into a rage, admittedly; I was disgusted and ashamed of Boo for such despicable things. It was within the following few months that she was remanded to the place where she became a child victim of sexual assault – and things obviously tail-spun from there to a much deeper and darker type of despair for our family. However, my explosive reaction to Boo stealing from my parents had started another period of time in which I was once again: cast out and collectively shunned by my mother’s closest family. Things were in such a state when Boo went away, and I did not start to speak to my parents again until several years later – when Boo was almost killed for the first time by a grown man while she was on the lam. None of us had seen nor heard from her in over a month and our fear drew us together at the hospital.
Since then, we have been pretty solid…
I believe the healing that seems to have been happening within my relationships with my parents (together and individually) is due to Boo’s worsening behaviors and lessening concern with how those behaviors affect the people who love her i.e. my parents and I. These days, it’s during the times when Boo has showed her ass and stabbed one or both of them in the back with painful blatancy somehow, that they tend to want me around for comfort. I am happy to be around them for this purpose and always have been, so in turn, is created a circumstance to which I am only bound by the negative and destructive displays put forth by my daughter. Upon my return from the last visit I had with Boo on her 18th birthday in May, I have only been re-affirmed through her own actions of her complete inability to live an honest life, in pretty much any context. She has since that visit, been kidnapped, tortured and maimed, literally nearly killed, had surgery, been hospitalized, and eventually returned to my her home county as a judicially procedural result; she has come back to her hometown – where I live.
She did not come back with any changed sense of appreciation for Life or how close she was to losing hers, unfortunately, either. No, Boo was flown back by her trusty and ever-disappointing “case worker” with nowhere to go besides yet another joke of a Sober Living Environment Safe house that only allowed her in because of some professional future perk the county offered in desperate return for an open bed. Boo lasted all of two whole days there (never calling or apprising any of us to the developing situation surrounding her living status or whereabouts – because she doesn’t have to now that she is an adult). As soon as she finished her course of antibiotic and needed no further assistance to shower etc. due to her numerous and severe recovering flesh wounds that are dispersed quite evenly from her head to toe – she was gone again.
She showed up at my parents apparently; and next, somehow managed to talk my dad into buying her a fucking top of the line i-phone and adding her to his phone plan (he still uses an ancient flip-phone w/out a camera); she promised all kinds of shit and then took a shower, ransacked my mother’s bedroom and jewelry, put on some hooker shoes, and left once again.
• She stole heirloom jewelry from my mother
• She came to the house with ONLY the plan of exploiting my dad’s fondness of her
• She has not returned since
She has, however, had the fucking audacity to call and ask for more cash!!! Not only from my dad, but also me and my mother also!!! My mom has finally been forced to water and I’m helping her to drink as slowly as possible, because it hurts like Hell to be stabbed in the back by a grown child of your own line that you helped raise up, I know…I know. But my dad…well, he would likely GIVE HER MORE CASH if he had the opportunity to do it without me and my mom finding out, I just know it deep down…and I don’t like it.

HATE.

“You get justice in the next world; in this one you have the law.”
~ William Gaddis

I’m not angry at her; it’s hardly her fault at all – what she has become. I am angry at myself, at her monster of a sperm donor, and at the failed juvenile courts system of the United States of America. I am angry at the useless social workers who weren’t paying any attention to what I told them when I reached out for help with her so long ago; I am angry at the many handfuls of children’s services that miserably disappointed her needs back then; I am angry at the laughable façade called the JUSTICE that remains only through legend and lore.
I am angry at the judge who has sat back for over six years now and watched with a wretched smile as my only child has been spiritually battered to death under her “care”; I am angry at the court-appointed legal representative that gets paid to protect my daughter’s rights as a clueless child in the midst of a heinously constructed legal process; I am angry that my community doesn’t give a shit about my daughter’s demise; I am angry at the various grown men (at least one of them, an employee of above mentioned failed court system) who saw it fitting to have sex with my underage child, beginning when she was only eleven years old.
I am angry at the case worker who claims to love my daughter and truly care for her…she is undoubtedly the BIGGEST piece of shit breathing air at present – the one who could and should have stopped many things many times, but didn’t. I HATE HER. And, I hate nobody else in the Universe.

More Letters to a Dead Man.

Dear Dead Man,
Perhaps I should have simply allowed you to do to our little girl, all that you did to me back then…maybe I should have been right in front of her every time you stomped me unconscious, sexually tormented my body, rearranged my facial features, gave me new temporary navy blue tattoos…
I guess after all the bullshit I endured to try and protect her from you and the effects of someone like you on another human being; it mattered not, in the end. If you were still alive and able, I would that you might find your way to where your now grown daughter has landed herself and let the wrath I lived with unleash itself amongst the animals who your little girl sees as worthy of her time and attention – worthy of her own life…one teetering so precariously on the ledge that it hurts my very spirit.
Where are those horrible back kicks, throat punches, jammed guns and fishing knives now Tough Guy?…when your own flesh and blood needs to be protected from guys just like you? After so much shit you spent your entire lifetime talking about protecting your daughters and how they’ll never have to be afraid of anyone…look at her now, you Fat-mouthed Dead Pig…she’s tenfold as bad off as I was at her age, when we were married…
I can almost even make the statement in honesty:
that you might have even somehow been a better creature than those who she has deemed worthy of herself…you might have managed to have a little teeny bit more humanity towards your victims…and, remember when I make this statement you useless fuck, that you cut my throat open in the end, when all was said and done…but you were somehow not as bad as the men who hurt my baby.

Without Consideration.

Ah, the insatiable façade…
of a government organization,
charged with the ongoing care,
of a child’s overall “protection”,
and look at the job they’ve done!
Producing mass demoralization,
burning without consideration,
crushing and burying memories,
fueling the hatred inside of me,
thriving within the destruction,
so many of my moments: stolen,
spiritually drowned and chopfallen,
hiding like cowards behind,
the safe-guarded legal confines,
professional rape of the mind,
is defined in some subsection,
of a somehow “acceptable”,
and despicably procedural,
part of systematic separation,
court-enforced parental,
public lynching,
then perpetual alienation,
penny-pinching,
and completely legal,
purely conjectural,
the picture in full,
strikes the eye as odd,
an agency playing God,
motivated by sheer evil,
operated hypocritically,
signed in disappearing ink,
no control,
no cause for hope,
down with this agency!
Else soon enough,
they’ll own all of us,
in with the afflicted,
contradicted,
and doomed, too,
no light gets through,
tried and convicted,
by a government’s rule,
backed by ignorant fools,
cracked heads affected,
from such a shallow gene pool.

Dear Dead Man.

Dear dead terrorist man,
AKA: my ex-husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
your continued presence in my space,
a circumstance of Déjà vu,
black and blued our daughter’s face,
I thought you should hear it,
since you’re not here to have to,
look in her face,
with her eyes like a raccoon’s;
it’s only fair,
that you be,
burdened,
and bothered…
to learn,
what she’s again been through,
you still fucking linger,
in the carbon atom,
and well-hidden,
unbidden…
forgiven in an innocently executed ruse,
she has your eyes,
impossibly long lashes,
to bat away told lies,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat left for your brow,
you’re gonna have to handle the truth;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through…
I wish you were living,
can you believe I’d say so?
Just long enough,
to walk in all tough,
you like to think,
nobody,
can make your eyes blink,
but if you had to see,
if your eyes,
had to perceive,
such atrocity,
as our own,
smiling baby,
all full-grown,
and battered,
just like you battered me…
you’d die again.

Boo Who?

“…she really almost died, was closer than not to death…because they had no qualms over torturing her to death…”
(a statement made by a detective to me over the phone this morning about Boo…)

It was times such these that prompted the creation of my blog to begin with…because I have ZERO support in the harsh real-time of everyday Real Life and was at my wit’s well tattered end, and desperate to relate to somebody (ANYBODY!) in regard to my tragic experiences in motherhood. So…with that being out of the way and written, I am once again: thrown abruptly into that very desperation for support.
My daughter has been hospitalized in Arizona; with injuries and occurrences that proved newsworthy (see previously posted article here). She had surgery this morning on her arm (broken in two places) and remains in the ICU at the hospital at present. The most heartbreaking part about her current status of “safety” is that it is as good as wasted on her; she will disappear once more from trauma recovery in the hospital – she ALWAYS does…it will not be long before she finds herself in a newly created but eerily similar situation – it NEVER is when she is left to her own devices, whatever those may consist of, anyway.
For ME – a surviving victim of a near-death throat slashing that ended years of sadistic torture and domestic captivity, intentionally CHOOSING to return to an environment that even holds the slightest possibility for the unfolding of oppressive or violent events is unfathomable and incomprehensible. When removed from the role of her fierce and worried mother, the lack of any lessons learned from handfuls of horrible circumstances Boo has miraculously survived so far becomes haunting. My inability to relate to her thinking or motivations grows by the day and, in turn, so does my dislike for the character she owns. I was almost murdered by her father – I came very close to being murdered successfully by his own hand…but, this was the crux of many unspeakable physical injuries and sexual assaults that I had endured throughout our marriage – it was my own boiling point that is inevitable for any “battered woman” who is hostage to a violent sadist. I saw it coming. I knew it had been looming overhead when it was. I had various emotional attachment elements that I allowed to narrow my thinking and ability…Boo knew her most recent abuser just a few days…
And again, here I am right back at that loss for any figment or thread of understanding…my chest feels hollowed out anew…my struggles feel so in vain…my only child defines a testimonial mockery of my own survival and ongoing recovery from torturous violence and evil (who so happened to be Boo’s father). The contrast between Boo and I in the presence of any self-preservative behaviors is so starkly sharpened that I wait for it bleed me dry.

The “18 Year Old” is Boo.

Anthony Marroquin, The Republic | azcentral.com Published 3:10 p.m. MT June 24, 2015

635707632627516306-T189403-030000

(Photo: Maricopa County Sheriff’s office)

Story Highlights

  • Victim told police she was beaten with hammers, had bleach poured on skin
  • Neighbors heard victim’s screams and called police
  • Suspect said someone else abused the woman

CONNECTTWEETLINKEDINCOMMENTEMAILMORE

Phoenix police said officers arrested one of the men who was involved in the kidnapping, torture and sexual assault of an 18-year-old Phoenix woman on Tuesday.

Police said the woman was brought to 25-year-old Johnnel Henry Thomas’ apartment near 27th and Northern avenues by another woman. The victim told investigators that Thomas and the other woman beat her with hammers, pressed hot knives/swords against her skin, poured bleach on her skin, and made her drink bleach, according to court records.

The woman told investigators Thomas sexually assaulted her. Police said the woman believed Thomas wanted her to sell drugs for him, according to a police report.

Neighbors heard the victim’s screams for help and called the police, according to officials.

Police say neighbors saw Thomas walk out of his front door naked and that he was still naked when he ran out the back door after police arrived, according to court records.

Officers said the 18-year-old woman had a belt around her neck when police arrived. She also had a broken arm, smashed hand, burns from bleach, bruises all over her body from hammer blows, and multiple burns from having a hot knife/sword pressed against her.

The woman was hospitalized and received treatment for her broken arm and other injuries, police said.

Investigators found two hammers, an empty bleach bottle, multiple knives and a sword during an initial search of the apartment, according to court records.

By Clairol Nice ‘n Easy

Unlock Your True Blonde

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Boo’s Attacker

Police said Thomas was located at 2:40 a.m. Tuesday in a stolen car near Northern Avenue and Interstate 17. Thomas told police after his arrest that he had sex with the 18-year-old woman. He told officers that another person abused the woman.

Thomas was arrested on suspicion of a series of felonies, including sexual assault, aggravated assault and kidnapping. He was being held without bond and is scheduled to appear in court on June 30, according to court records.

“Be fucked”.

“Be Fucked.”    – Calamity Jane


I received a package containing all of my daughter’s school papers, notebooks and any other miscellaneous documents that she collected over the years of her incarcerated teenaged life. I have had possession of the box for almost a month now and only opened it the other day because my mother was seeking out a particular photo that she assured me was inside.

mock my painI have avoided opening this box and exposing myself to the mess of utter bullshit that it encloses, as I know that there is very little about her persona that is her own; the lies that she cultivates and maintains regarding her real life events and the real family associated with them. It’s been a few years now that I’ve had to digest the fact that my only child is a compulsive liar who seems incapable of telling even simple truths in the most casual of contexts.

I can imagine what it must feel like for the mother of a serial killer or a fucking terrorist who has been identified and detained before the world to see: the inconsolable shame and regret, bewilderment and lack of any ability to relate to the actions of one’s own offspring – much less: be able to account for any of those actions as the mother of the creature in question…I don’t need to imagine what it feels like to go through the later part of one’s life in absolute shock and faltering denial pertaining to the finally produced grown-up version of what was once her child; the child she never understood or related to, the child that boggled her mind and trampled her heart in the long run.

be fuckedBut yeah, my good ol’ mom insisted on sending me to swim with the jellyfish yesterday, and asked me to look for the photo in the box…and…

Was I surprised by the horse-shit chronicles that I found inside?

Hell no.

Does it hurt my very core to its hollows upon being reminded how very fucked up my kid is as a human creature, to be able to put such miserable dishonesty in writing?

Hell yes it does, every time…to read such disillusion in her own words always stings and burns like it was the first time reading it.

Yes, the box is chock-full of lies and delusions in written form; horribly non-believable versions of her life story that paint not only me – but my parents as well – as warped, mutilated and fabricated versions of ourselves to fit the varying purposes such documents were meant to serve. These constructs of penned deceit written by the hand of my only child are not something I take lightly – on any level; as they have come to serve as written proof in my mind that my child has been lost to me and my family for a long, long time already. And, somehow – as crazy and unhealthy as this may come across to my readers, to be reminded of exactly the depths of character incessantly displayed by her at the cost of her own family – the only people who have ever given two real fucks about her – is a comfort to me now; as I have no idea whether she is dead or alive, anyway.

Mindfuq.

Well, I’ve been trying to find out exactly how to put into words what I’ve been experiencing since my return from seeing my daughter (possibly for the last time ever).
On the day after her eighteenth birthday, she disappeared and left me to swallow the reality that she could truly care less about our extremely strained relationship ever getting better. I spent the next day and a half alone and in tears, until it was time to catch my flight back home. I knew it would only be a matter of time before she burned the bridges (as rickety as they were to begin with) between she and her “girlfriend’s” family and people; before she found herself excluded from whatever setting she had been so compelled to ditch me for.
Of course, I was right. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done to actually leave that place by my own will, seeing as how I truly feel as if I’ve walked slowly away from the arena in which she will be tortured and killed eventually. The years of her teenaged life have been spent with her running away – running away – running away…and now that she’s an “adult”, there’s no chasing her anymore. And, that’s what it all comes down to for me I guess, is the fact that I’ve spent so many years in having to “force” my way into her life, if I wanted to be there at all…which is anything but a good feeling when it comes to one’s only child.
Boo has found her way, once again, to right where she undeniably wants to be: a place where she is regularly treated like an animal by grown men who buy her for a few hours at a time to use as they like, before tossing her aside (if she’s lucky). The lies that she spent our time together in telling me only make my blood boil in retrospect:
“You never have to be on the street, Boo; you know as long as I have a roof over my head, so do you…”

“I’m done with that lifestyle Mom…I know that I deserve better than that…”
Her father was the master of telling me what I wanted to hear in order to get me to fall in line with his bullshit…and the older she gets – the more she makes his ways seem so feeble and small. I haven’t heard from her since that day…May 14th 2015; and now I am once again living in that mindfuq place where I am afraid to answer my phone again. I am back to waiting for that call in which I am told that she has been found dead somewhere in a garbage pile. It hurts. Bad.

Hotboxed Minivans.

I go back and forth over those upcoming days:
do I dress myself up for Boo’s eighteenth birthday?
do I play myself down and just let her have space?
I will spend the first in silent awe of her beautiful face…

it’s so difficult to describe to anyone who may be asking –
in any words or phrases in any language that is known to me,
the deep losses and emptiness that linger above me, cloudily,
my mind feels confined to the place that’s defined by utter misery…

to be a mother to a daughter who’s lit the darkest of my nights,
a little girl who centered my world when nothing else felt right,
a little spirit whose existence is eternally intertwined with mine,
but, my girl has grown up to hold her standards anywhere but high…

most parents are worried about colleges and hot-boxed minivans,
my motherly fears are so vast and sincere, it has hijacked who I am,
after the few days we get for her birthday and high school graduation,
and to wrap it up – I have to leave there without her once again…

to have a daughter who calls you “Mama”,
and she brags about how young I am to her friends,
the absent parent, ‘Orphan Annie’ over-glorifications,
if she only knew how hard I’ve fought to stand in line and fall in…

things have gone so horribly wrong since they broke our family,
they’ve pushed her further and further so inconspicuously,
built a framework in her state of mind that disregarded me,
it’s not the eighteenth birthday party I’ve been imagining…

Children and (in)Justice.

A very fitting ending to my week might have been an explosion that swallowed my entire section of gridlock in rush hour – nowhere to escape to – no matter if you use your blinker, or not; another fitting scenario just as easily could’ve been something along the lines of having my limbs tied to four horses that were subsequently giddy-upped four different directions; or I maybe should have ended up asleep in some dirty crackhead’s tunnel inside of that horrid “sculpture” thing that I spent several days of last week staring at from a cush hotel balcony…that would have sucked.
The ten days leading up to yesterday seem like a dreamscape to me now, somehow – in a surreal and foggy kind of way; the entirety of the emotional expenditure on my part has left me drained, and sensing a question mark floating above my head when I try to think too hard about why that is. I have decided to let it roll off my back for now – all of it; it’s too diabolical and dramatic for me to wrap my head around, anyway. All that I know for sure is that I have lost my focus lately, despite my progress in therapy and my expanding comfortable environments (good sign!), it is suddenly clear to me that I have been quite “functionally” dissociated and detached throughout.
It’s the final “other shoe” that needs to be dropped before I can possibly breathe again like I used to. The tension and anxiety that are attached to Boo’s upcoming 18th birthday and release into a distant community, on her own and without any preparation or real world social skills – well…the underlying dread and fear have rendered me bassackwards on pretty much a daily basis for so long now that it has come to feel “normal”, almost acceptable on some days. But in truth, this ongoing stress factor for me has done a good job at riding me hard; and these days, I guess it’s time to try like Hell to put me away soaking wet.
The darkness that my life has gradually resigned to, as a result of the past six years of Living Hell in a Waking Nightmare that is directly attributed to, as well as executed by – the local courts and government funded agencies – remains as a hue that my words cannot possibly describe with any justice or worthy depiction; the needle went off the vinyl so many years ago and there has been only the hideous, brain-aching sound of the resultant scratching ever since. The professionals charged with protecting my child have collectively gang-raped me (metaphorically speaking) in succession for over six years – legally, and without shame. They have broken my pockets through repeatedly relocating my Boo further and further away in distance, and then denying me the agreed upon (prior to any of the relocations, of course) financial assistance with the lodging/traveling expenses required to maintain any kind of real “relationship” with her afterwards. These so-called professionals have been the CRIMINALS more often than not, the in the grand scheme of it all.
Yet – nobody gives a second fuck about it…because it is unbelievable right? It only happens to people on TV or in a different state than ours, right? Sadly, anyone you see in the news with similar stories is only even shown on the news because something irreversibly tragic and impossible to sweep under a carpet somewhere has happened to that person’s child(ren). I would love it if someone – ANYONE – could successfully show me any form of lasting justice in the Juvenile Court System, nationwide. I search and search these days for any documentation that sways an opinion in the direction of such a notion; one thought of Boo, and my blood starts to boil, naturally. Yes – Boo has FINALLY seen a small piece of the justice due after the Living Hell that she has been forced endure for the last SIX PLUS YEARS…but it’s hardly enough.
Notably, these crucial and trying years have been spent being forcibly separated from each other by the very same individuals and agencies that set Boo on top of the burner to begin with all that time ago. Notably, the tragic and disgustingly long line of events that have transpired as direct (and indirect) results of the Judge as well as the local DFCS’ initial fuck-ups through Failure to Protect/Failure to Act/Failure to Follow Procedure continues to be swept aside to all corners by every “professional” involved. Notably, anybody with any empowerment to have helped Boo receive said justice when it still might have meant something to her – as a child victim to a Pedophile on the county Payroll – has opted NOT to exercise such powers in the sake of a child’s fundamental human rights to be unmolested while under the COURT ORDERED “care” of an institution.

Thoughts.

Theoretically, last night should have brought me the best sleep that I have had in some time, after hearing a jury’s guilty verdict of the man who ruined my daughter so long ago.
As I lay there in darkness with buds tightly squeezed into each ear playing Ben Bonetti’s “Hello Spider” meditational gig, I began to think about the Pedophile’s family (he has a wife and two children the same age as my own), and was overcome with grief.
Over the last few years, I’ve seen his wife various times in passing- on the news, and other places associated with the common denominator between us; there are ill feelings in the air during each of these instances, almost naturally. I have watched the Pedophile’s aged and decrepit mother hobble up and down three floors with her cane to trial so many times I couldn’t count them if I tried; I have seen the toll taken in the faces of his kids as they have become young adults, just like my own has; I have watched his family disintegrate into dust amidst the chaos of what he has done.
These things do not give me a sense of peace or fairness in any way…two shocked and completely torn children who stopped showing up at trial days altogether about halfway through…the jolly smile gradually fading altogether from his ancient, crippled mother’s face…the last string of hope attached to his poor wife’s perception of his innocence just falling away into nothingness…
the many scenes that would undoubtedly be enacted most dramatically for a movie; the parts in which the viewers would be pumping fists and shouting “Yeah! That’s what they get!”
But reality tells me differently now… “they” don’t deserve this at all. They have been victimized also (especially the kids) and have been also been permanently damaged and traumatized by the actions of their’ Pedophile father. His wife, who stood by her man for years before finally becoming so jaded and embittered by the proverbial “bag” that she was left to hold after her husband was arrested, she has been traumatized as well by the causes and effects of her husband’s Pedophilia; she has truly been changed in many ways by this circumstance – and I am not even someone who knows her, but it’s that apparent, even to a stranger, how heavy her burden weighs in on her back – it shows in her face, her disappointment and shame…and, that isn’t fair – she isn’t the Pedophile. Last night, I found myself wondering about her; about what she was doing in response to the news that lifted my spirits to new heights yesterday…what thoughts was she spending her night playing through her mind?
Anyway, I am obviously relieved beyond words that he has been convicted of many counts (not just Boo), but the verdict and its permanence holds many more facets to its shine that I had originally been prepared for, I guess.

CONVICTED.

I am nearly too overcome with shock to share that the Pedophile has been convicted on multiple serious counts (and will be sentenced next Monday) – but seeing as how I outlet through writing, there it is.

HE HAS BEEN CONVICTED BY A JURY OF HIS PEERS FOR THE DESPICABLE THINGS THAT HE DID TO MY DAUGHTER, AND MANY OTHERS.

Despite the undeniable mockery of Justice that has led here to his juncture; and in total disregard of the well-known fact that I, personally, have NOTHING outside of lethal venom to spit from my mouth in regard to the entirety of the circumstances (including the comedy show that has theatrically staged and performed within Courts, nationwide, funded under the heinous pretense of “Juvenile Law”), I have somehow still been asked to make an “impact statement” at the sentencing hearing.
The DA knows my nature pretty well by now (Gods bless that man’s soul and spirit eternally); there have been handfuls of times when he specifically offended me by requesting my absence in certain situations that he knew would not benefit by his star witness’s disgruntled mother becoming irate and unforgiving to the target audience. The case that he just successfully tried and convicted has been the epitome of a dragged-out legal process – going on six years or something now.
So, the fact that he was the one who asked me to write an impact statement for the sentencing judge came as a surprise to me, after all.

“Um…are you sure you really want to hand that letter over to a judge, Counsel?” I asked him semi-jokingly earlier at his office after he broke the news of the convictions to me;
“It’s not like you have any reason on Earth to include any hard-grudged death threats to him, so yeah – I’m sure…please write it…just trust me.”

The guy is a saint – a genius – a knight in the shingingest of shining fucking armor…he could pretty much ask me to sail a Zodiac raft into a freak swell storm, and I think I would find a way to be happy about being glad to do it for HIM. He did, after all, always believe Boo and reaffirm her trauma with her through his work (and now, he has championed that reaffirmation for her in a Gods damned court of law). There is little that I wouldn’t do in the event that he urged me in one direction or another – I have come to trust his judgment in a fashion similar to the way some people might trust their’ doctor or priest. That all said, I intend to write an “impact statement” for sentencing, as he requests.

It’s odd…after all this time spent thinking of this day and all that it either would or would not mean stacked up against the rest of Boo’s life; this verdict represents the only hope in the Universe at all for Boo to ever find a way to heal from the trauma and its ripples. Since the Pedophile ruined her young life in 2009, Boo has spiraled miserably out of control, to the brink of no return many times – to re-surface against all odds with seemingly only the one purpose of further self-destruction and demise. She has been in custody for the duration of the time between being sexually preyed upon by the Pedophile (who worked at the initial facility to which she had been court-ordered for behavioral treatment) and now – our family has been long ago trampled to dust, as a result of the affected alienation. Her social worker has been telling her all these years that she is a liar; that the Pedophile never touched her; that she’s best locked away from any kind of real support or love of her family. What kind of impact statement would I even begin to write to the judge in rule over the future (or lack, thereof) of the man who’s rotten sexual mutation destroyed the life of my only child?

“Dear Your Honor:
Had your piece of shit colleagues over at the Juvenile Courts – the ones who order children to reside in “treatment facilities” with sexual predators on the payroll – actually been doing their’ fucking ALL MIGHTY jobs (if there is even a job description for such a way to waste 8 hours five days a week and drive a convertible Jag), perhaps I wouldn’t have to write you this statement of impact against said predator.”

Yeah…that’ll go over like a fart in church, I’m sure…
All I know is:
hate to be that judge reading my statement – whatever it will say. Hope he is used to sugar-free…

Big One-Eight.

lock_2_by_prophetharm-d7u8tmt

The day that lands on May thirteenth,

will be a very memorable one, indeed:

after all these years of waiting separately,

my little girl finally turns the ‘big eighteen’;

The anticipation that grinds behind her release,

is stuff that’s enough for the death of Yours Truly,

my heart pumps to keep up with the thumping beat,

but it’s barely enough to keep my blood flowing freely;

Her entire life, we’ve talked about its eventuality:

silly things she and I would do on this day, specifically:

create the biggest ruckus seen in recent local history,

roll around with the windows down in a rented limousine;

We’ve joked about obnoxious face paint we’d be wearing,

the gaudy jewelry that I brought to her from New Orleans,

spend hours doing nothing but her very favorite things,

truth is: I won’t even get to see her – and that’s our reality;

She will take her newly granted wish of finally being free,

and run with it as far and quickly in a direction away from me,

it might be years until I see her face again, if I’m so lucky,

her lack of any self-esteem or worth keeps her far, historically;

My little girl exists within a place that she can only be,

the pages of the Missing Persons reports, filed repeatedly,

the hours between the sunset and the next day’s dawning:

she’s in there somewhere trying to find any kind of meaning;

This day has long been a source of a most primal fear in me,

the burdens carried so long will either hold or break clean,

from the chains that have rusted around them quite solidly,

the very last of my chances to find the daughter that I seek.

Coms Check.

“There’s been a problem…”
His face is calm now, as he speaks to me; but there are wrinkles on his brow still not completely faded away from the conversation that he just had with someone on his phone regarding my baby, Boo. TWO blessings in the entire legal nightmare that still plays out for my daughter and I have been:
1) The High Profile Child Sex Assault Attorney who (according to courtroom Legend, at least) has secured Boo a large financial settlement from the organization in charge of the facility where she had been sexually assaulted.
2) The District Attorney who is heading up the feather-ruffling prosecution in the current trial of the man who assaulted Boo.
It is the DA who I am greeted by upon my arrival at the courthouse, all crisp and clean in his pinstripes and cufflinks – he’s no older than I am, and driven by sheer fire underneath him. He believes Boo; he has always believed Boo; and this fact caused him to stand out amongst an ocean of professional evil in a time of sheer crisis, back then. He is the ONLY one in the entirety of Boo’s justice that I can depend on to shoot straight with me – good, bad or otherwise. I do not know what it is that creates such passion in his work for him, maybe he was sexually abused as a child – it wouldn’t shock me to learn this given his ever-raging flame, and it doesn’t matter to me what causes him to be so good at what he does – all I have ever cared about was that he’s there, to do his job the way he does it. And let me tell you: the guy has been in the media smeared notoriously by the wealthy folk against whom he has successfully hammered in trial court – as a “circus act in his unconventional approaches to jury trials”. The guy ain’t no joke…I have come to trust his words in regard to agreements he makes with me or things he tells me to take heed to, he has never steered Boo or me wrong to date.
“What? What’s happened?”
I’m sure my body deflated as obviously as my heart did in the moment, but I didn’t care. The sense of control in these situations is so far on the other side of the planet from me, that I easily become derailed by such instances – and the DA knows this (after all of these years together). He puts his hand up in between our two faces and turns it, palm out towards the bench outside of the courtroom. I sit down heavily and with a sigh.
“They either missed this morning’s flight, or it was delayed…or something happened with the flight and she’s not here yet…”
HISSSSSSSSSSS
He calmly says,
“She’ll be here in an hour and a half, and I’ve set you guys up together in the little side room, for her breaks and stuff.”
EXHALE
“Okay, but you’re gonna get me in there with her, so she knows I’m here and I can bring her Chipotle when I come back then, yea?…”
He is rather good at appeasing my combustion switch, or I should say: he has become that way over time, I guess. I agreed to come back with Boo’s favorite lunch at noon.
I saw my beautiful, blonde ringleted, doe-eyed daughter, Boo, today. She did it. She came out here and endured a horrific six hours on the stand in the name of justice – for herself as well as others. My pride over her is overflowing today, I told her so many times how fucking proud I am of her…immensely proud. But mostly, encouraged. Encouraged that maybe there is still some my Boo in there that knows right from wrong, and who will fight for what’s right, even when it’s not the easiest for her in the moment…
Boo made a point to do the right thing today and I can only hope it felt as good for her as it did for me.

Damages.

gandhi_just causeThey have already officially tried to block me from the courthouse today; they are using the ol’ “she does not cooperate under the code of the law” bullshit…which is true, I do not cooperate with their destructive plan to ruin Boo’s life, and never will. Despite the fact that there is not a shred of evidence that would back the pathetic social worker’s attempt at keeping me out, there have already been red flags raised up over my presumed parking spot, downtown, across from the courthouse where Boo is as I type this.
I will go anyway, and I will park there anyway, and I will get out by myself and walk into the courthouse like it’s my job, because it is.
They cannot keep me from a public courthouse or courtroom unless I am held in contempt; which hasn’t even come close to happening yet…
All of my friends and cyber family:
TODAY is a BIG BIG DAY for Americana and Boo, please send us your good energies and/or prayers. WE NEED THEM.
Here goes nothin’….

Missed Me.

hihater

I’ve been walking on wire
high above a horrific crime scene,
looking down at the sheer
size of such a bloody tragedy
the yellow tape is stretching
for miles across the trees
and the vultures circle
widely around
the tight rope
I’ve been walking.
I look down, muted sounds
while little dots of people
mull their ways around
most of them don’t care
that I’m watching
from the air,
but a few, I see
have taken notice of me
magnified by a cross-hair.
They will try to kill me,
they’ve tried so many times
to shoot me down
from the heights I’ve found,
but they can’t seem
to tap that bead.
And so on I look
bullets flying right at me
I do not falter,
just too desperate to see
the object of this circus show,
the victim of this scene…
tell me.
Is it my baby that you
have down there
amongst such a
massive tragedy?
All I want answered
is this simple query
put down the rifles
and answer me.
They know what I’m after
and they know just as sure
that I won’t be going
a damned place without her.
But, I’ve got a shocker
Folded into my sleeve
and it’s something that
none of these cowards are
expecting from me.
This is what happens,
with all of this time
they’ve given to me,
my mind has mapped
its very own crime scene,
and mine’s filled with bodies
of them, not her and me.
Surprise!
from my high place
above the green trees,
and once it’s all done
I’ll climb down finally
Desperately searching
for my only baby…
I know that she’s here
I can hear her calling to me.
But I never could find her
amongst so many
other dead bodies,
she screams to me
Mommy!
The haunt of my dreams.

Denominator.

I guess I just have it in my blood to trust the wrong people throughout my time on Earth amongst other human beings –or whatever you’d call those carbon-based, sets of bones with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly (or loosely) around each one, with seemingly emptied out, bobbling heads attached – I sure as Hell hate to call those things “people”.
I have mastered the unrewarding, often self-masochistic, pseudo-“art” of choosing the most shallow and self-absorbed individuals on whom to place importance and on whom to martyr my dwindling ability to trust. At some point in my life, I got to where I can no longer blame the vernacular beasts that I choose to surround myself with for such miserable incompatibility; sooner or later, I had to swallow the realities that I find consistently staring back at me through the eyes of my own reflection.
I eventually began to accept the fact that if I am incompatible with so “very, very many” of my own species, the likelihood of that incompatibility being born of the “shortcomings” of that group of “very many people” is low, if even in existence. I have truly realized and began to accept that I am the faulty common denominator in the countless equations of social arithmetic that I pathetically fail to wrap my thick head around – the continual negative sum in the mathematics of human behaviors and relationships – worthy or otherwise, I am the common denominator. PERIOD.

1421876244430-1Naturally, the majority of “relationships” that I can stake any claim to throughout my scarce and, undoubtedly warped experiences within the realm of human intimacy have each been notably unhealthy in at least one major aspect. I do not know what it looks or feels like to be in a healthy relationship with anyone in a romantic context. In spite of the insatiable hunger and longstanding desire I remember always harboring to have this elusive, healthy thing. At the end of the day when all’s said and done – I wouldn’t recognize a healthy relationship if it came up and bit me in the face…how could I recognize something I’ve never seen before? I have only misidentified the chances that I might have had in the past at healthiness in a committed relationship with someone; I have only mistreated the good standings I’ve had with men who may have been exceptional if I had given them a fighting chance. I just can’t trust the words that people choose to waste on me anymore, at all – not women, not men – not anyone – ever, in any circumstance. My issues behind the inability to foster commitment run so deeply entrenched at this stage of “the game” that I have truly started to question whether or not any amount of therapy, strenuous physical exercise, or exhausting mental stimulation by the opposite sex could ever actually change my perceptions back to what I think that they once must have been.
I do not know if I find this revelation a good one or a horribly life-altering one, either. I have been behaving so ambiguously the past few years in general, in all honesty. It’s been very strange to feel so indifferently over everything – another HUGE shift from the person that I used always like to think I was; Life’s formerly Technicolor scenery has been replaced by a drabber, grey-scale version of it. The white noise of my existence resembles the constant, bellowing rolls of thunder that accompany the bolts of constant lightning that crack like live wires of energy gone awry: a chaotic soundtrack that perfectly mirrors my psyche and syncs naturally with my soul. During nighttime the soundtrack only shifts into the noise of a low-volume baseball game’s announcers and noise.
I have not lived a perfect life by any means; I don’t claim to have, and I am also much too self-aware to dare try. I know that I have let many people down along the way to where I stand now in life, and death. I know that my combative spirit is NOT the ONLY reason why I have survived as long as I have; I realize that I hold no special title to the world’s shallow, robotic inhabitants, nor would I like to if given the chance to hold one:
…a bunch of fuck-heads…
People disgust me with their’ all-consuming need to rise in rank – to “ever-aim-higher” – to continuously yearn for what ISN’T in a given existence…bigger, stronger, faster – better and worth more money…
Me: I don’t have this parasitic social handicap I suppose; because I could honestly care less about having bullshit possessions that I can carry around and flaunt – to show off to my heartless “friends”. I do not count the monetary value of my possessions against my own cha-cha in the Universe; I don’t ever let my head fill entirely up with the environmentally poisonous, bullshit hot air.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

I’d trade anything I own in a nano-second in exchange for some sort of true comfort that Boo could eternally call hers – that nobody and nothing could ever steal from her. The rest of the world and the bullshit happening in it just seem so insignificant and muted to me – while my daughter spirals downward into what should have been her future. Her eighteenth birthday quickly approaches now – in May…and I carry so much fear and dread as well as excitement and relief over her coming of age and being set free. I’ve only recently opened my fucking eyes and seen the striking similarities between Boo and I in regard to commitment issues, somehow…not sure what the fuck I have been paying attention to, but it’s like a metric fuck-ton of bricks from the top of the Empire Reality Building have crumbled and landed on my head, in terms of Boo’s shiftiness.
Basically, somehow I have managed to totally overlook the FACT that despite my painstaking efforts when she was a baby and her father and I were together still – to protect her from seeing things that he’d done to me, in a wide and creative array of ways, trust me – she still KNEW. She always knew. Even before she knew that she knew, or what it was that she knew – she knew. I’ve always known this deep down in my heart, for obvious reasons…but as with my former drug addiction during the same era of her life, there’s nothing I can do un-do any of it, so other than to simply try and persevere onward and upward from those past mistakes of mine – there’s little I’ve ever been able to process surrounding any of it. Of course, she and I have always had issues over her father’s sudden and permanent absence from her toddler-hood; she remembers him being there always and then one day just not ever being there again. In her perceptions however, she does not recollect the FACT that I also disappeared from her life at the same exact time as he did – only temporarily. All these years later as a full grown woman, I see the unacknowledged trauma that must have created for Boo, in itself. She doesn’t deal with it properly because she has somehow warped her perceptions into something other than what they actually were. She would tell you that her father “just up and left me and my mom one day…”, which anyone who knows anything about our story knows wasn’t even close to how shit went down. She hardly ever even talks about my absence/injury/hospitalization period at all – never has.
These thoughts of mine have me wondering things about why it seems to be so much more difficult to really get through to her about ANYTHING. I’m realizing that her entire perception of all things shared between our life experiences, together or separately, is contrasting to my own.

math_friends…which brings me back to my original point with this:

Who then, in these instances between Boo and me, is the common denominator?

Don’t Dream it’s Over.

“There is freedom within,

there is freedom without,

try to catch the deluge

in a paper cup;

There’s a battle ahead,

many battles are lost,

but you’ll never see the end of the road,

while you’re traveling with me…

Hey now, hey now
Don’t dream it’s over
Hey now, hey now
When the world comes in
They come, they come
To build a wall between us
We know they won’t win

Now I’m walking again,

to the beat of a drum,

and I’m counting the steps

to the door of your heart;

only shadows ahead,

barely clearing the roof,

get to know the feeling of

liberation and release…”

Justice is Burned.

IMG_4423

“I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.”   – John Keats

 

I cannot blog about my current state of ‘scarcely kicking’ as of yet – because of legal constraints – but let’s just say that a trial is FINALLY underway now, and Boo is to be on a plane to fly home for six hours to testify on behalf of not only herself, but for the rest of his victims, also. This is because Boo is officially documented as “Janey Doe #1” – his first legally acknowledged victim in a long string of them who came after she tried to tell everyone about what he is. I am surprised as Hell that they haven’t found a way to disallow her testimony because of the horrid implications that her truth screams behind the broken ass child welfare system.

Boo didn’t ask to be sexually preyed upon by a man who was her “counselor” at the “treatment facility” to which she was court ordered to reside; she never asked to be steamrolled and labeled as a liar for telling on him – way back in 2009; Boo didn’t look to become the cynical, dissociated, unruly and self-loathing creature that she has been molded into because of these very things, either…so, Boo definitely struggles with the notion of her burden to testify now, after all this time and all the lies and bullshit that she has been force-fed in the time between then and now. Boo comes and goes as she pleases – physically and mentally. THAT is how she has evolved herself in order to SURVIVE.

Each time it comes up (which is often, and always has been), she shrugs it off and says stuff like, “I don’t even want to think about it after all this time, let them [by ‘them’, she means the subsequent line of girls younger than she, who fell victim to her abuser as well, after she tried to tell everyone what he’d done to her] deal with it.” We have gone round and round about this element of the bigger picture…a debate that I argue passionately from either side – depending on either one of our mind states at the time.

On the one hand, I feel it is intrinsically necessary that Boo testify in summation and on behalf of ALL of his victims; she is ferociously honest and raw when it comes to shock value, she enjoys triggering people – she feeds off of the collective stunned reactions, it’s the only form of reaffirmation that she’s ever been able to scrape up off the fucking floor from these despicable “professionals” charged with her “care”. I am of the opinion that with Boo on the stand, his justice will be served much more unanimously and without further delay (for lack of a better description, as there is no such thing as justice in this circumstance at all).

On the other hand, I agree with Boo when she says, (verbatim):

“Mom…it’s been like five years…I just want to forget about all that already, he’s not even my biggest problem anymore…”

And she means that – she has grown up quickly since she was preyed upon by the man on trial now…she has been involved in much more dangerous and lastingly traumatic situations since age thirteen, She is currently also a “star witness” in TWO additional court cases as well…one of which is EXTREMELY HIGH PROFILE and has caused me to start sleeping with a loaded pistol nearby because she witnessed a fucking murder/robbery and the men in question are out on bail with my contact information – thanks to the courts. Boo has bigger fish to fry…which is a sad thing in itself. Tick tick tick….next week shall be the climatic catch to the cliffhanger in regard to Boo’s decision to testify or not.

And, if she flies out here to testify, she will likely take off afterward and be missing again…thing is: as much as Boo hurts me and as much as I brood over her well-being and safety when she disappears, it’s not very different from the ways I worry when she is locked away to rot in a different state without her Mommy, she’s being fucked up either way…I keep hoping one of these days, instead of running away to the cesspools again to hide and feel safe, she’ll just come home and let me hide her instead. Yeah, I might end up in jail again, so what? I’d do it. I’d do it to send a message to Boo, that she’s safe with me despite her lack of ability to feel safe anywhere. Criminal charges added to my file for protecting my own kid…done it before, I’ll do it over and over again. That’s what a Mom is for.

Sweetest Girl.

“She had a good day, bad day – sunny day, funny day…

all he wanna know is: “Where my money at?…”

“…Closed legs don’t get fed, go out there and get my bread…”

all he wanna know is: “Where my money at?…”

She falls, he calls – Where My Money At?

She ended up in Rockford, bruised up –

scarred hard, and all he wanna know is….”Where my money at?”

So Ima tell you  – like Boo told me:

“Cash rules everything – around me.”

Screamin’ DOLLA DOLLA BILL, ya’ll!

It Is What It Is.

Last night, at around 8pm, my phone started ringing in my pocket; I was surprised to see Boo’s name brightly lighting up the screen through the dimness in my lap, playing the custom ringtone “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd loudly to the vibrating beat. It made so many wrong things feel right to talk to Boo on Christmas, last night…

It has been since our dog Ozzy died in late June, that we last spoke. Since we have seen one another, she had a birthday…our relationship truly couldn’t be any more estranged and alienated. The more time that passed by without any contact, the more guilt was stacking up behind each minute spent separated from each other like we have been forced to be. It’s been so, so long this way…inhumanely long. She writes to me often enough, robotic letters that hold no meaning – just words that she thinks she’s expected to write to her Mom at a given point in time. I admit, I have been withdrawn from her; which is inexcusable, so I won’t bother with coming up with any excuses behind this fact; it is what it is.

Last night, we talked for 37 minutes straight! This is by far the longest I can ever recall having a conversation with Boo (in person or on the phone) without some type of major drama or explosion on her part. We are typically like fire and water; and the older Boo grows, the less often have we been able to even remain in the same vicinity for very long without combustion. She is very different than I am, always has been. She thinks that I am a “goody-two-shoes” somehow; this is a truth that still just blows my mind. I’m not sure where she ever got that from, but that’s her perception of me. It is what it is. I think she is a disloyal and conniving, beautiful and intelligent little blonde, long-lashed, doe-eyed creature; who has unfortunately come to epitomize the poster child for the self-imposed cycle of traumatic experience; she wouldn’t even begin to know how to break down that label into anything that made any kind of sense, though…she barely reads. It is what it is.

We talked last night about all kinds of stuff that I wouldn’t have expected to talk about with her. She has decided that she’s gay again – which is a song and dance that she has played with me since she was thirteen years old – for a reaction that I can’t believe she hasn’t learned by now, she isn’t gonna get from me on that score. I always tell her without fail (and I mean it, too) that she can be with whoever she wants to be with and have my approval so long as it’s a healthy and somewhat “normal” relationship. I couldn’t give a shit if she’s gay. It is what it is.

We talked about her caseworker and how useless she is, which led to other conversations that got my blood boiling, as usual, in the context of that good for nothing, stinky bitch caseworker assigned to my daughter’s gig. Boo said, “I wish I could just get myself arrested somehow so I would get a probation officer, instead (of the caseworker)…”; a remark which at first made me cringe, until I remembered having once said the exact same words from a juvenile holding cell…damn…it is what it is.

That Way is ‘Up’.

2014-12-02_22.17.44It is December 5 today; 20 days away from the worst day of every year. In twenty days, I will spend another Christmas holiday alone, without anyone considered as family – without anyone who really cares one way or the other about the status of my presence – by 20 days from now, I will again be wishing for death, fast or slow.

All of the days leading up to that day will be filled with bad feelings and experiences, triggers and recollections that make me on edge and cranky as Hell; not a single day between then and today will leave me feeling even semi-complete, as I shop for gifts for the normal people in my life who celebrate the holidays like normal people – pretending.

All of the nights in between Christmas and last night will suck just as badly as the days, no rest for the wicked…or broken-hearted. I will dream of things that will never be and never could’ve been – wake up with that gut-empty feeling and feel afraid for three straight hours with each sunrise – never learning to put my finger on the source of these feelings to stop it, despite my frustrating efforts.

And Christmas Day, itself:

I will sleep as late as I can in an indentation at the edge of my cold bed – between it and the cold wall – I will force my tear-singed eyes to remain closed for as long as I possibly can because I won’t want to open them on that day, I promise. It feels as if the vicious cycle of my existence always gets close to erupting at this time of every year; everyone knows to leave me alone, everyone knows that there’s nothing they can do for me – there’s no solutions to offer or insight that’s worthy – everyone knows.

If I were stupid or lonely enough to expose myself to my extended family on that day, I’d regret it rather quickly; and eventually wind up saying something fucked up to a member of my own family in an over-anxious, depressed and defensive state, before storming out in tears. Been there, wrecked that. I call this entire song and dance “The Circle of Holiday Death” – it happens over and over and over and over. Each time that my heart, mind-state and blood pressure begin to “normalize” after the re-opened wounds, it’s Christmastime once again, and it all starts over.

People will ask me if I am okay until I will begin to respond with anger and irritability; they will not understand. Even my closest friends will avoid me because they simply CAN NOT offer me comfort in any way and they know this (the friends who have not already become totally overwhelmed by my reality and disappeared, altogether, that is).

I will seethe will anger at certain thoughts during this time of year: the people who have created this Living Hell for Boo being able to happily celebrate around a table with their own loved ones, their own precious children; my baby spending the day alone in a locked cage while being told that she’s unimportant and that everything that’s happened to her is her own fault.

IT HURTS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME DERANGED…

And through it all, I MUST keep my grip on composure; for I am NO good to the (Gods willing) older Boo if I end up in prison or dead before she turns 18. I do not plan on abandoning Boo ever again – – no matter how fucking bad it hurts me to follow through with. SHE NEEDS ME; even if she doesn’t know it yet. I have long been aware of the fact that I can’t undo whatever it was that did Boo; I can only build from where we stand, upwards. Our “relationship” is so far gone that I don’t feel as if it’s even possible for us to grow any further apart anymore.

So I guess there’s just one direction to go with it all, when it comes to Boo.

The Last Time.

Almost Like Me...Kinda(ish).

Almost Like Me…Kinda(ish).

It was almost a full year ago – the last time that I laid my eyes on my only child, my daughter…Boo.

I struggled not to fall apart the entire time that I was blessed by her physical presence that night; the circumstances were, as they tend to be when it comes to my daughter, next to unbearable for me…but I remember how grateful I strangely felt the whole time that she lay unconscious in my lap at the Emergency Room. I was quite dissociated during the entire holiday season last year (every year for the past six years); and when I found out that Boo had finagled her way into a “home pass” from the facility in which she is court-ordered to remain, out of state, high security and with no socializing included – I became even more detached as a means of cushioning myself emotionally from the inevitable train-wreck that I associated with the “home pass”. I somehow remember the last two times that I saw Boo so vividly and clearly, it stabs my belly to reflect upon either instance, though.

The last 10+ “home passes” that Boo has been given ended in catastrophe, and I am not exaggerating. It began even before they moved her out of state and out into the sticks (when she was still somewhat socialized from her former life with me in a family unit): the disappearing act; she has it down to a science, and always pretty much did. Boo can POOF! Be gone within the blink of an eye, before you even know what hit you, she’s off on another death-wish driven expedition that she may never return alive from. Boo has always been uncontrollable by nature, I don’t know how else to describe her – she’s explosive and impatient as Hell – she’s a chameleon, and has her mother’s total lack of attention span – she has no sense of Self at all, she just goes with the flow that will lead her to the most trouble and danger – unfortunately, that’s just Boo.

Last year’s “home pass” was no different: I picked her up at the airport on the 28th of December (close enough to Christmas for me to have actually been okay through the day without her on the 25th), she was gone by the 31st. She remained missing that time for nearly two full weeks with no word of her whereabouts or well-being…it was sheer Hell, fucking Hell. I wouldn’t wish that shit on my worst enemy, I swear. When they found her that time, she was in bad shape…bad, bad shape…wow. She ended up being involved in a serious sex trafficking bust and returned to the county where I live by the police to the hospital, from which she left again almost immediately – before I could even get there. Boo knows how to betray me better than any living soul that I know, even when she’s not trying to. This happened three consecutive times over the duration of the following month and a half: Boo missing for unreal amounts of time – my not knowing whether she was alive or dead – HELL.

The final time that they picked her up on a highway in the desert somewhere, half-naked and so fucked up on drugs that she didn’t know who or where she was, beaten and burned with cigarettes, two busted ankles – unconscious and dehydrated – was the last time that I saw her face. I went to the hospital at around 10pm and held her until the morning, at which time she had been deemed stable enough for transport out of state, back to the locked facility that the courts leave to her in to rot. She was hardly coherent for any of the time that I spent with her that night…in and out of delirium and on heavy duty painkillers…ankles both freshly plaster-cast, eyes both swollen closed. I saw cigarette burns all over her arms and shoulders and hands. My heart broke the rest of its way into two separate pieces that night; I know that much to be true. As much as the whole thing was terribly painful and trying on me to endure – I could only imagine what her process of endurance for these things must be; I remember thinking: “Just rub her hair and don’t let her be alone…”, so I did.

If You’re Reading This, Maybe Today’s the Day You Understand…

If You’re Reading This, Maybe Today’s the Day You Understand….