Fool The World.

Who do you think you are?
…to tell me anything of my success (or lack thereof) in climbing out of my own very personal Hell to face the world on my own two feet, without the shelter of duplicity; when that girl you used to think you knew has been dead and buried for 27 cold months, without your having the slightest clue of that fact…like you’ve been here…ever…like you can even begin to count my sorrows on your ten arthritic fingers…like you can even begin to fathom the hem of my garment…like you can ever say that you “know” me or anything that I am or am not. Who do think you are to pass your own pompously final judgment on what kind of thing I can or cannot be? Who the fuck are you to render me unworthy of walking in your park? Who do you think you are to attempt to make me feel “loved” and “appreciated” by sending me boxes full of my sledgehammered heart’s dusty remains…with a grenade pin at the very bottom. Who do you think you are to poke my unhealed wounds? Do you think you are something special now, after all is finally said, and, I unquestionably know how little I ever meant to both air holes on either side of your neck, despite the sweet nothings blowing out of each one? Who do you think you are to tell me that I’ve won…won at a game that I never wanted to play…that I’ve won, when it feels like sheer nothingness…
Your meager attempts at life have always earned you too much of a harvest with little effort put forth…so self-absorbed and incompetent at being the things you try so hard to portray…
But that’s all you are…is a portrayal on screen.
You’re image is grainy and you’re faded beyond recognition, you always were.


Really, who do you think you are?…to burrow yourself into my soils and explode like nuclear fission beneath the roots of my stunted trees? You hold no sway over me, you can’t hold the tethers that string to my blackened, squelching heart…you can’t hold the tethers that string to that cavernous pit in your own chest where a heart should be…who do you think you are, anyway…to surprise me with such a heinous and poisonous truth behind your essence…to release the toxic particulate of your explosive insecurities into my atmosphere…raining down your ice cold rivulets of self-loathing from the skies above my fugue. Who you are to the rest of world, the world you try so tirelessly to fool, the one all around you – you are what you are…but just who do you think that broken thing is? You ooze brokenness…despite your self exonerating conceit…
I know who you think you are…and let me tell you that it actually coincides with who I once thought you were, the similarities are uncanny…but the lights go out over the memory of all that. The lights go out behind the curtains of your fucking languish…and evermore, phantoms of your gains and losses will trickle through your simple brain and leave a stain across your nose. You clean up nicely though, and need not worry about the soul you’ve sold to fool the world.

Stitched Into Me.

“To spare oneself from grief at all cost can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness.”     – Erich Fromm

“Detachment is not about refusing to feel or not caring or turning away from those you love. Detachment is profoundly honest, grounded firmly in the truth of what is.”      – Sharon Salzberg

“A heinous history of emotional, psychological and sexual abuse at the hands of trusted partners or caregivers, sometimes leads to the suffering from complex PTSD. This manifestation of Traumatic Shock is more complicated than “simple” PTSD, as it pertains to the chronic assaults on one’s personal integrity and sense of safety, as opposed to a single acute traumatic episode. Such chronic tyranny of abuse results in a constellation of symptoms, which impact personality structure and development.
The symptom clusters for C-PTSD are:
     Alterations in Regulation of Affect and Impulses
    Changes in Relationship with others
    Somatic Symptoms
    Changes in Meaning
    Changes in the perception of Self
    Changes in Attention and Consciousness
 Fragmentation of the personality occurs because the capacity to integrate what is happening to the self is insufficient. The survival mechanism of dissociation kicks in to protect the central organizing ego from breaking from reality and disintegrating into psychosis. Hence, fragmented dissociated parts of the personality carry the traumatic experience and memory, while other dissociated parts function in daily life. Consequentially, profound symptoms of depersonalization and dissociation linked to c-ptsd manifest.
Dissociative disorders are conditions that involve disruptions or breakdowns of memory, awareness, identity or perception. In the context of severe chronic abuse the reliance on disassociation is adaptive as it succeeds in reducing unbearable distress, and warding off the threat of psychological annihilation. The dissociative disorders survivors of chronic trauma represent vary widely, and are inclusive of: dissociative identity disorder (formerly multiple personality disorder), dissociative amnesia, dissociative fugue, and depersonalization disorder. Identify confusion is also deemed a by-product of dissociation and is linked to fugue states when the traumatized person loses memory of their past and concomitantly, a tangible sense of their personal identity.
The treatment process for those afflicted with c-ptsd and attendant dissociative disorders is extensive and comprehensive. Depending on the severity of the repetitious traumas, even in progressed stages of recovery a client may find himself grappling with persistent feelings of detachment and derealization. Given that the brains mediation of psychological functions is dramatically compromised by the impact of chronic trauma, this neurobiological impact may be a strong contributing factor regarding lingering dissociative symptoms in survivors of c-ptsd.  Integrating and reclaiming dissociated and disowned aspects of the personality is largely dependent on constructing a cohesive narrative which allows for the assimilation of emotional, cognitive, and physiological realities. And finally when fight/flight responses diminish and an enhanced sense of hope and love for self and others results from years of courageous pain staking hard work, the survivor reaps the rewards of this capricious and harrowing journey; one’s True Self.”

“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.