Promise.

“For you girl, the future holds never-ending promise…”;

Those are the words that my great-grandmother mumbled through her toothless mug at me last Friday when I went to see her (for the first time in way too long). At the time, I was just grateful that she hadn’t decided to Hex me somehow for allowing so much time to pass between visits; she actually never even brought up the recent negligence on my part to maintain our former schedule. I never really know where Grandma T is coming from with the randomly spouted morsels of wisdom that she is notorious for letting slip – yet, nearly everything she says out of context at the time she says it, oftentimes plays itself into the happenings of the days directly following the statement. She has always been a tearful woman; not like a psycho – cut off my hair – manic/depressive tearful, more like she remains in a constant state of mourning, all the time. I’m beginning to wonder if that has something to with me…

Yes, for me, the future holds promise; promise that things will change…good things will go sour and bad things will evolve into tolerable circumstances. That’s what Life is about.

There are promised periods of despair, self-doubt and loneliness; and I feel assured that my self-enforced alienation from my hell-bent-on-being-victimized parents will leave another hole in my Swiss Cheese heart; but I also feel very certain of my personal need to get away from the vicious cycle attached to the two of them, in accordance with my own daughter and only child. I feel as if this whole situation has always been on the brink, on the outskirts of my existence just waiting to occur. They have apparently decided to enable themselves to be destructively tossed around in that thankless and soul-sucking spin cycle; I have been swayed in the complete opposite direction.

It continues to be difficult for me to comprehend even on the most fundamental surface level: my place in this newly forged trench in the wasteland between Boo and I. I have been the spade thrower digging day and night while I am numbly sleep-walking around. I have deeply burrowed myself away from the battlefield and lost interest in the meaningless warfare.

I have, in essence, had to make the choice I’ve spent every moment in dreading recently… the choice that I feel as if I have spent forever hanging from the sharp edges of… from the two worst possible options for someone to be faced with. Cruel and unusual in nature, it’s a choice that offers a finality that will bring closure – even if it is NOT anything like the “closure” I might have liked to have. I have not yet fallen into complete resignation behind my choice yet, but, at least I have made the decision. This decision does not boast any perks for my future to come, outside of the hopeful prospect of some peace and fucking quiet; I will be cutting off my own nose to spite my own face with this choice – but the same can be said for the alternative choice being made as well.

In my adulthood (current state of being), I have allowed myself to become exceptionally recluse and isolated from others, including my family. Because of the close connections between my parents (mom and step-dad) and my only child to one another, I have spent many years leading up to this choice in being trapped between my own unrealistic, self-serving need for a family as an element of my own identity – and the reality that I my “family” is by far: the most emotionally destructive and unhealthy thing known to my existence. I am no angel, but I have learned from this Living Hell that I am also definitely not cut out for the dramatics and lack of humanity that seem to be attached to both my mother and my daughters’ personalities. I have been idly standing by throughout these past few months while my only child has single-handedly demolished whatever stability my parents had going for them, if warning and pleading with them to cut her loose means that much. The scratchy words in my throat still ring from the night before my stepfather was nearly beaten death, when I said to him,

“If you aren’t careful Pop, she’s gonna get you killed…”

They have been robbed, burglarized, my step-dad was beaten, ransacked, sucked dry of any money that they may have had prior to Boo’s return to the area; my mother’s car is totaled, the garage of their home has been crashed into and tumbled down. I get these calls from my mom detailing the extreme stupidity involved with all three sides – my mom, dad, and my daughter. I have to listen to how she lies her way back into their lives, then I have to listen to how she fucked them over again afterwards. I can’t do it.

So in essence, my mother’s refusal to keep me separate from the never-ending drama attached to my daughter, has ultimately pushed me back far enough to no longer want to return again.

I haven’t been speaking to any of my family besides my great grandma, because she lives on a reservation that my daughter will not go near out of fear of being strung up for her crimes against her family. My mother stopped calling, a sure sign that she is too ashamed to face me now – translating into the likelihood that my offspring still resides in her domain, somehow – despite the piles of bullshit and destruction that she has managed in the few months she has been around.

My decision comes down to this:

I have chosen to keep it this way; to not allow myself to get sucked back into the unhealthiness again, not by anyone, even my mom. I don’t know any other people who have a parent and a child that is bad for them; so I am totally winging it and doing what feels necessary in order to keep trying to try to survive.

The Bird Hollerer.

When I moved in (about five years ago), there were three society finches left here by a former tenant; two boys and a girl – that I immediately fell in love with and began taking care of, eventually adopting as my own. As a die-hard Star Wars fan, I named the boys Han and Luke, and began to teach them the Imperial March as a moniker. A few months after I arrived, the original female passed away, leaving the boys alone in the cage for a few more months before I realized that they NEEDED a female. I went to the Petsmart and gambled on a female Crowned Society with a wristband; they guessed she was about a year old at the most. Her name was obviously Leah, and I loved her – she had total attitude and “crazy hair” like me.

Apparently, Han and Luke noticed her attitude also, because neither one liked her at all – and so life went on in the “Society” very uneventfully for quite a while. I bought Amendalla on a whim one day because we bonded at the flea market. She was so pretty, and she had these adorable little white dots above her eyes that made her reminiscent of a doe somehow. She was very shy but very sweet and trusting once she knew you. The boys both loved her also, and the Society was hoppin’ as soon as I added Amendalla. One day a few weeks later, my roommate noticed a baby at the bottom of the cage and gave her a lift back into the “hut”. Chewy was obviously Amendalla’s offspring, as she sports the doe dots above her eyes and is colored 50/50 the boys and Amendalla. Next, came the baby Leah that I named Crown because her “hair” looks like a crown; she is a total bitch just like her mother.

Leah escaped one day and we never saw her again; I still look for her in the backyard often. The last additions to the Society arrived two summers ago, out of the blue: a set of ginger blonde twins named Fet and Bobo, both female, and were schooled by Leah’s bitchy daughter The Crown, so they are all three loud mouthed brats. Amendalla passed away the day after Marcus died, right before Christmas. Last week, I lost Han and Luke within the timespan of seven hours. Now – I have the twins, the Crown and Chewy left alive – all females and 3 out of 4 are just straight up bitches and cluck and scream nonstop now that their fathers (or mother) are no longer there to keep them in check. These are not birds that you can set free to the skies, unfortunately – or trust me, they be singing Lynard Skynard by now. They are a genetically modified breed that does not exist in nature at all, as they are typically only used as foster parents to exotic breed finch hatchlings. They have been bred to have one purpose in life – parenting.
Here’s my dilemma, the remaining girls are miserable, no doubt. Useless and aimless and in obvious distress;
Do I find them a boy or two (in which case, this cycle will continue because of the age difference)?
Or do I let them die off in shock, loneliness and distress?

TRUE Story.

Wow.

Wow.

 

Why can’t people just be honest about shit, especially shit that’s already said and done. When someone draws the proverbial line in the dirt, in my opinion, it’s much more respectable to stand tall next to what they’ve drawn, instead of pretending that it hadn’t been them who drew it before I got there, or when I wasn’t looking. Worst yet, it’s not as if I can’t handle being told the truth – I’m a big girl.

All I can say is that when someone doesn’t bang what they claim, it only means that someone’s heart isn’t in whatever they’re claiming. It’s irritating to me that I’m apparently not worthy of the truth in the opinion of someone in whom I have placed a lot of faith and probably too much kindred-ship in. I partially get it, it’s a generational thing – an age thing – which is fine…go be in a lion’s den instead, if that’s what sinks your pickle…but be real about it at least, damn…

Damn…