“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.
a yarn ball made of questions,
unrolls before me;
a tangle of answers form,
tripping up my feet;
the theme, unchanging,
surrounding the inquiry,
how and where is she?
unanswered for me,
tears that eat away the years,
as they pass slowly.
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.
And then, I looked, to the east, again… hope to see, a smiling face, unique to, just one, beloved, man… what’s more, I saw, fore: the frown, of madness, instead… it was, indeed, the face, sought out, by me: darkened by, shades of red… the flutter of wings, the grace of such things, as they tweet and fleet, right through, a hole in my head…
A perfect example of what I mean when I say that “Father Time’s not on my side” is today’s fucked up tangle with The Opportunist.
The Opportunist was obviously feeling lonely in the rain at home and decided that he’d try me. The reason why he felt like it was okay to contact me (despite my crystal clear instructions in the past on this issue; as in, I told him to flat out lose my number the last time he tried to text me, six + months ago) is simple: Time.
The Opportunist apparently feels that enough time has passed now for me to have forgotten who he turned out to be – how shit ended between us – and the fact that he trampled my super-high-risk heart knowingly. The Opportunist was someone SO VERY CLOSE TO ME, that he knew all of the intricacies that have molded ME – everything. And still, in order to climb his way higher up, he stepped on my head and kicked me off the ladder in the end. He really fucked with my head there for a while, really hurt me on a human level. And…I can’t even get myself started when it comes to the abandonment attached to this man (thing)…the vulnerabilities I endured to get close to him, to let him in…he fucked me up, yes.
But the thing is, that Father Time hates me…and doesn’t give me the comforts that he affords most people in terms of his nature, no; he doesn’t heal me; never has and never will. Father Time and I don’t get along so well, little does The Opportunist realize. I forget nothing. He sent me a slew of text messages all throughout the afternoon today, obviously in the grips of some manic episode of his own; but that’s not my problem either. I finally replied… once, and his texts abruptly ceased to come through.
The last one he sent was,
“Hopefully, you’ll let me put a smile back into your life without any extra stress…”