Lowly.

I opened my eyes with the thought in my mind,

the futility of running this routine another time,

the cruelty attached to waking hours in sunshine,

the frailty that’s latched itself inside my eyes,

tells a tale to me against my own will,

spills the history flooded between me and Hell,

bites the fingertip feeding me strips of roast beef,

hangs me by my thumbs from a weeping willow tree,

steals away my everything,

down to every teeny piece,

I can’t even find the smile in my sleep,

it’s been stolen from me.

Qualcuno! dovrebbe sparare il batterista!

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Not a pity party here tonight…just “blogging” in my “blog” like a good lil’ blogger…

I am surviving; yeah…I am waking up in the morning every day like a Survivor, however – with a permanently embedded bitterness pasted to the roof of my Survivor Mouth; rolling my eyes before even rolling out of my bed completely; aimless; hateful and resentful; wishing for a car to strike me dead in the road with every crossing I make. I can’t say that I’m suicidal; I don’t lie around thinking about ways in which to end my horrid, miserable mockery of a “life”, nor do I idealize the notion of offing myself – as inviting as that idea may be oftentimes when it passes fleetingly through my overstimulated mind at random. Yes, I said “at random”, and I did not misuse the word; thoughts of death or dying or being dead flow freely around my every moment of life, oddly enough. Even after surviving a very near-fatal injury and recovering for so many years afterward, even after spending so long of a time wondering if I could eventually be someone who appears “normal” again on the outside – and then finally achieving that “normalcy” in appearance; even after almost having the very life ripped out of my grasp forever before I was ready to die (I was only 21)…still, I remain infatuated with the alternative of life and living somehow.

I can say this: that I never would have fought to recover like I did – had I known what the future held. That thought bothers me often, and is something that I bring up regularly in therapy with my shrink because it weighs heavily on my heart to be aware of this fact. I talk long shit about my Cut-Throat instinct, and how it defines who I am; but sometimes I wonder if I don’t secretly despise the Survivor in me for pulling through to the other side, for fighting so hard for so long when it was so trying in every way, for believing so fucking much in Modern Medicine, “miracles” and The Underdog Theory…do I actually resent myself for getting through ….TO THE HELL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HELL. I think so. No matter what anyone else says about shit and the way shit went down, I continue to look at my recovery from severe and traumatic injury as the period in my life that I screwed Boo over the worst. This was when Boo was abandoned in her mind; it was during this time that Boo needed me more than ever – a time when I was within arm’s reach to her but denied her access, as far as she was concerned; I was selfish and wrong to have expected a toddler to comprehend my own instability – that’s not a kid’s job. Sometimes I wonder if Boo would have been better off had she been taken into the foster system way back then, when she was still young enough to be suggestible to ideas such as mental health and coping skills, etc. …I can’t help but to blame myself for what Boo has become, it’s natural I know that.

I also know it’s not always reasonable for me to blame myself for how things have gone with her; not all of them, at least. The guilt and the self-disgust over this period of my history eats me alive though, with every unfolding crease in the pages. Cause and effect is a basic concept; and one that has always been near and dear to my world in an instantly gratifying way; as I have always been keen on the irony of this particular notion. I have been struck by the leathery, aged hand of Karma into the state that you know today: my entire life being a comic strip tableau of karmic instances occurring consecutively in a long string of “Hate to say I told you so’s”. Anyway, more recently I am becoming aware that I am middle-aged, rebelliously single, mentally unstable, and vertically challenged woman (who looks like a little boy because her hair won’t grow into some of the many varying grafts in her scalp) with a total lack of motivation or purpose or direction. This will hopefully be a temporary self-inventory; God Damn I hope it is temporary because I’m getting tired of resenting myself for being alive so often.