Don’t Tell Me That.

Looking about this place I dwell,

unsure if I want to face this Hell,

there’s so little here to comfort me,

so many years of horrid memories,

emptiness fills the hollowed space,

thoughtfulness lives some other place,

far from me and mine out there,

they tell me it truly exists somewhere,

they say it gets better the harder you try,

but I can’t believe such an obvious lie,

it seems the constant noise is killing me,

frustration has replaced any simplicity,

the corners have started to fold inward,

on a picture of all my heart has endured,

the faces in the photo have disappeared,

the colors are faded and inevitably smeared,

likened to my own reflection,

without strength and no direction,

I often hope that I am the crazy one,

who should be put away in locked asylum,

that would explain so much of my pain,

I could finally embrace all that’s insane,

they say when someone is that far gone,

there’s no telling them when they are wrong,

“crazy people don’t consider being mad…”

said the most discouraging shrink I ever had.

 

 

My, Oh My.

 

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

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

My, My.

It will someday claim,
All I’ve left of these short breaths…
My “anxiety”.

It pains by no name,
Bringer of a thousand deaths…
My old memories.

It’s whipped me to shame,
Jimmied my heart from my chest…
My own mockery.

It’s always the same,
Threatening to take my best…
My PTSD.

Huh?

Based on the fact that she is my Mother, and wasn’t present in any way, shape or form throughout my youngest days, she has been glorified in my heart and my mind somehow; in my mind over time, she has morphed into some painted-faced Goddess with great power and control over my actions and sense of self; she continues to have the carrot to dangle before me, and I continue to focus on it and follow her lead.
She is my Mother, yes – but she is not right in the head, and never was – so I’m told…she never had any business having babies of her own with a head as twisted as hers – never had the stuff it takes to be somebody’s Mama. My Mother doesn’t really know how to care about other people; she is just hard-wired that way…some people call it sociopathy, others call narcissism; she’s a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic – she has the history of getting way out there at times, if not medicated and monitored regularly by a “specialist”. She is aggressive and violently explosive in her mental instability; this is the trait about her that she has most impressed upon me throughout my lifetime in observation of her behaviors; she is ruthless when it suits her needs – I have bared witness to this many times, as well as played the role of her “victim” during such instances also.
I cannot trust her word – it is mud in my book; despite what she says, her actions always speak horribly louder than what she tells me. Anyway, our relationship is the epitome of awkward and edgy, because it newborn for the most part – I am only barely getting to know her, I’ve never made the effort in the past. She is a nut job, no doubt – and oftentimes, when I have a conversation with her, I find myself hardly able to control myself from just bursting out:
“The fuck are you talking about, Man?!!!”
I just can’t relate to any of the things that define the daily existence of my Mother, Willow…she is seriously on another planet in my opinion…all I can do is just shake my fucking head over it, I suppose.

Thoughts on ‘Detachment from Reality’.

Face It.

Face It.

The human species has the baffling propensity to become manic with enough fear of the ‘terroristic’ kind. I tend to flash onto the scene from the early 80’s movie I saw as a super young child in which the hostage, desperate with fear and doom and gloom (from being terrorized), finally can’t stand it anymore – and runs off the side of the building’s 125th flight rooftop – as opposed to remaining any longer in the grips of the terror. Same example can be attached to 9/11, and the many terrified souls that we watched leap from the burning buildings – in desperation and terror, on some level, obviously, innately aware that the end-result would be the same – DEATH. These realities are indeed, tragic as Hell; however, perfect examples of how the human species tend to respond during circumstances defined by terror.

We all have the capacity to detach and dissociate when it becomes a necessary element to our own livelihood; we have honed this psychological mechanism to a truly universal skill in our time here on Earth so far, so well, that many of us perceive this type of dissociation as something other than what it is: a coping mechanism in its rawest and purest of forms. It is one that everyone has used already before in his or her own experiences with Life and Death; it is a ‘skill’ that we will each use again before we die, also. It has become part of the human nature that spans across the globe. There is no question about that.

My question then, based on the implications surrounding this truth about dissociation and detachment from reality as a means of human survival, would be:

“If we all execute the use of its affect, and we do, why are we not, as a species, focusing much more on the “channeling” (for lack of a better word) its presence in a more positive direction?”

 

         To me, it doesn’t seem to be brain surgery, to conclude that we have been, and will continue to evolve psychologically, just as we have physiologically – throughout history. Evolution is an unmapped process, despite the ways that it is in our genetic nature to do so, given environmental changes and the presence and/or appearance of variables that have such effects on us, as an Apex Species. To me, this streak of “instability” in certain individuals who display dissociative behaviors stands out as strength greater than any physical one that our collective species can stake any claim to. It represents the will of the mind to bend the body’s ability to endure great physical feats of survival in many different contexts, and sometimes in very young human beings.

I am totally honest when I say that each and every human individual that I personally know who suffers from traumas so horrific, the presence of this thing called ‘dissociation’ has become permanent – is also someone who has strength so powerful and unique to only him/her. These are always the MOST human of human beings. These are all people who I would depend on, have depended on in times of need, with success and a supportive outcome. These are all people who were robbed of something crucial to them early on in their young lives, every last one of them was. They are each hard-working, loving, passionate, deeply spirited individuals also, with very uniquely burning fires that can’t be distinguished by anyone or anything – outside of themselves. And too often, this is what happens, because of the complete lack of support and understanding put forth by the rest of us. It is the understanding of the child inside of these people, one that was robbed deeply during childhood and never moved on. How can we be angry at a child for being “unstable”?

Reversed Rejection.

It was as soon as I walked through the threshold of my front door to the front porch that I heard the cries of a child – the screams that a child makes out of true panic – the scream that comes after the initial fall or impact of an injury – the scream that tells ANY mother within a three block radius that a child has been hurt.
My ‘mother bear’ instinct kicked in right away, of course; and I was instantly down my driveway and into the middle of street, trying to visualize the source of the crying, to no avail. I once again (and this is always something that tickles the shit out of me) located the source using ONLY my “good ear” to guide me. The child was across the street, up over the other side of a footbridge that begins adjacent to my house. As I huffed and puffed (I’m a smoker) my way over the bridge and down the stairway on the other side, a little boy came rushing at me with a look of sheer terror on his face – I recognized him immediately as one of the two young boys belonging to the man down the street (who totally hits on me constantly, not disrespectfully so, but it’s awkward, and I become the PTSD poster-child whenever he talks to me – yet he keeps trying!).
“Are you going to go get your Dad?” I hissed at him, not even bothering to wait for his answer as I sprinted quickly by his little form.
“Yes…” I heard him reply as he rounded the upper-corner of the stairway to cross the bridge, and disappeared into the fog. I was nearly upon the younger boy, who sat, wailing in panicked breaths, almost “Indian-Style” at the bottom of the final step of the steep, concrete stairway – with his Roller Blades still on.
“Oh Jesus…” I muttered under my breath, upon noting that last detail. Soft bones or not, it can’t be very comfortable on your ankles to sit that way with Roller Blades
“You’re okay, Buddy! You’re okay!” I realized I was already saying this from a few feet away from him. He looked up at me as I reached his tiny frame in the mud with a look full of gratitude and fear and relief and shock all at once: brightly lit blue eyes like darts into my heart. His little, shivering arms both shot upwards and outwards for me, his mouth hanging open, trailing snot and spit from his bloodied lips, still covered in a layer of loose gravel.
“You’re gonna be okay, shhhh…come here…what’s your name, again?”
I scoop him up off the ground, as I had already visually found no serious injuries outside of a bruised ego and a busted mouth.
“Alan.” He says, muffled by his own little forearm as he wipes his face with his sleeve, leaving a crimson-smeared work of booger art across the entirety of it.
“What happened, Alan – did you jump those stairs in your Roller Blades?” I ask him, obviously being silly. We’re talking 50+ steps.
“No…my brover pushed me…” He begins to cry harder again and digs his dirty, bloody face into my armpit out of shame and embarrassment.
“He did!?”
“Yes!” His voice is so full of betrayal as he answers me, his little body wracking by the sobs he can’t help but let out. My heart was so hurt by that teeny part of the entire episode, though. He digs his small fingers into my neck and shoulder as I ease my way up with him on my hip.
“Let’s just sit up and check out your battle wounds, okay?”
“Kay…” His slowly calming voice sounds infused with helium.
Just then, his Dad and brother came booking down the stairway towards us, I said “I think he’s okay…sorry if we alarmed you…”
I handed Alan off to his grateful father without any further incident, or so I thought. Ever since that day (about three weeks ago), Alan and his father have come to say “hello” to me on two separate occasions. Yesterday, they invited me to go out with them…it’s tough because I don’t know to tell an adorable little button-faced boy (and his Dad, more importantly) that I’m broken and a waste of their’ time and energy.

Tick. Tick. Tick

The moments between pulling the pin and clearing the distance necessary for safety –

These moments filled with dread and doubt and abandon –

Swirling with the desperate thoughts of a million and two suicidal in the final minutes of a million and two miserable lives, the air around these moments grows thick and greasy with the oils dug up from the deeps, worldwide; expectant of some kind of natural law to level itself out once more, but only thickening by the nano-second.

These moments after I press the ‘send’ button and before I receive a reply that is to my liking – one that typically never comes – those moments that seem to choke and throttle out small reminders to me of why I am so alone in the world, of why I always will be and have been.

These moments after I slice open my dried out heart to show you that it’s empty and withered away – to prove to you that there’s no blood pumping through it the way there’s supposed to be, like there used to be…

These moments provide this being’s only means of feeling alive; if only to feel the hurt and sorrow and pain and guilt – they remind me that I am, indeed, ALIVE with more blood left to spill, if necessary.

The moments hanging in air so heavily between one violent act and the next – spent in genuine hope that this might finally be the last time he bashes my head in – that this time his brute force and strength may actually do me in at last; between then and the moment he DOES try to kill me, and I am somehow overcome with shocked disbelief that he just cut my throat with his knife… scar tissue, stab wounds and slash marks are my life’s humbled reminders of the Hell I once drowned in, and the depths that I have also resurfaced from.

A testament in the moments of better days, to the unimaginable and quite regrettable past I’ve left behind like chewy dust in the sticky wind: my mind is wide open for the chance to be free and free others like me; my heart is behind my mind 110% during these moments that fleet across the void of mind and the dark of night.

I curse and long for these moments, these morsels of truth and what’s REAL…for, without them – I’m a simple, parasitic animal leeching my way through existence. Not a care in the world.

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.

Seeing Renee

I saw Renee today; all grown up and covered in dark make-up, hair twisting down to her ass in shiny, sleek braids and tresses; she looked beautiful – sixteen and a half years old already and driving her father’s beat up old blue pick-up truck…

Renee and Boo used to be best friends for like – EVER, in the ‘hood. They went to different schools but played every day after homework was done, took each other on family trips and so on. By the time that Boo had to leave home in exchange for a “residential treatment facility” because of her increasingly unruly behavior, the girls had grown apart for the same reason: Renee is a tried and true “angel”, without a mean bone in her body; Boo is natural-born and rightful Hellraiser.

Seeing Renee today, so happy and full of life and promise and bright futures wide open to her, I have to confess I was stricken by some sort of jealousy or envy – CORRECTION – I was nearly consumed by it.

I spoke to her for a few minutes about her dad and dogs and whatever other things I could think up to say as I watched her eyes dart everywhere around us, looking for Boo – searching for Boo with so much hope and excitement barely contained behind her eyes. It always goes this way when I see one of Boo’s friends, or better yet: a parent of one her friends – someone who knows very little about me and my daughter’s trials and tribulations – someone ready to spit venomous and projected judgments at me,

I finally shot out my hand and grabbed Renee’s arm, surprising myself with my own sudden decision, and said,

“Renee, you and Boo might be totally different and worlds apart these days, but she’s been MIA on the run for almost 2 months and just found out that her father died; yeah – her father died, yeah, the one that’s been in prison – he died; she just returned from AWOL yesterday morning to hear that news, and…well, you know how she is…she could probably use a friend, a real friend right now…”

My eyes stared down at the concrete where we stood in front of the donut shop, my grasp still tight on her arm. Her response was almost immediate, and painfully sincere; she said,

“I love Boo and always will, but I guess it’s because of that, well that’s why it’s too hard to be friends with her…you know?…because she hates herself so much…”

I choked up, but covered it beautifully behind my dark sunglasses; I smiled down at her, my grip loosening slowly and gently, so as not to imply any offense or resentment towards her. “I know, Kiddo…” I said, “I understand…”

Today’s Beautiful Discovery

3rd member announcementI’d like to drag an index finger across my fully recovered throat for the most recently discovered Diamond in the Rough, and very celebrated newest member of the growing Cut-Throat Club Online – a place where the spirit of the struggling Survivor is acknowledged in full.

The following is an excerpt is from her blog; in my opinion, this small piece of her written thoughts – this snapshot of her brave struggle – bleeds the essence of the survivor for whom I hold the utmost appreciation and respect. This excerpt is a testament to her status of what I consider to be the epitome of a truly “cut-throat” soldier of the survivor clan – and I’m proud to welcome her talented presence into the club.

The first thing that caught my eye on her blog:

“I have borderline personality disorder, but I am not my diagnosis. I am a loving, sweet and kind person. I want to help others, I want to explore the world and make people happy.”

The piece that sealed her fate as a “Cut-Throat”:

 

“….The few months following her death were a blur, I guess I went to classes, I have the degree to prove I did. My heart wasn’t in it, my head wasn’t in it. I isolated myself, angry at every one. What’s the point of even leaving this bed if every one I love will leave me? I longed to lay down in the dirt where she was left, for two weeks, I longed to somehow drift away into a peaceful death where I could be with her. 

It’s been a little over six months and it’s not easier, but it is different. I ache for her every morning when I wake up. I dream she’s still with me, before my rational brain screams “she’s dead” in my ear and I’m woken up with a jolt. The abandonment is real, there is only loss, but I’m learning to love and cherish the good. I’m learning to use my grief to motivate my own life….”

 

I’m so very glad to welcome:

Miss “Inconsistently Yours”

Surviving like a Soldier over at:

http://inconsistentlyyours.wordpress.com/

Beckoning Strength

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My entire existence feels quite strained and stretched past its own ability; my thoughts and feelings have been going through a change that’s so unprecedented and foreign to me, and my objectives in life have seemed to alter themselves as a result. I am going to once more, try to explain, try to describe, to convey in accuracy, my current state of being – without the fear of what someone else might think about it…because the need that I harbor for support and guidance always outweighs the shame and embarrassment….my desire for sanity balances out my habit for unhealthiness.

 

My only child, my daughter, age 16.5, has returned again as of late last night; she was picked up by the local police and then taken to the Emergency Room, as usual – from which, her tragic pattern has proven, she will leave once more and return to the world of Roulette, where she has chosen to live an insane life on her own.

It’s happened – finally…my heart and soul has gone cold and totally robotic towards her now…from so many years of preparing myself to lose her in a horrible, murderous way to some psychopath she’s willingly running around with; all of my tears, enough to fill the driest basin – for naught in the end. She has been dead to me for a short time now, I recognize – hence my current mourning period and the loss that I feel in every ounce of who I ever was. A genetic loss, a loss deeper than anything possible. A beautiful, delicate legacy, lost to the darkness of drug addiction and exploitation, trafficking and human madness.

So many many instances in which I have been the captive – a hostage to the absolutely appalling decisions made by others. It’s time for me to write this out loud, after all these years of chaos, of chasing a normalcy that was elusive, of fighting tooth and nail against the puppets staged to fight me – all while the invisible opponent slashed and cut at my heart from my womb. 

How many times did I save you? How many of your “wolf!” cries did I answer and walk you out of safely? Each time, only to be spat on by you in the end, when you grew bored of normalcy and made the sale. You continue to cry “wolf!” so regularly, even still…unable to see that the effectiveness of its meaning has long left the repetitive noise it creates. Ineffectiveness is a state that is lost on time and effort; and it is a concept that has sadly and tragically come to define our relationship. 

 

I can’t keep swinging back and forth like this – it will drive me as insane as the retched people my daughter lives amongst in the Nether-wastelands she seems to love so much.

Its as if, after helplessly watching her drown, unable to save her, and then, after finally accepting the defeat of losing her – I’m walking away to grieve her loss, only to be shocked by her sudden resurface and renewed plea for my help – help that she doesn’t really want at all. So goes the gut-wrenching cycle that no sooner is she is fitfully dragged to shore and renewed breath, the girl unfailingly belly-crawls herself back into the depths and sinks without a fight. Over and over and over and over.

My own brothers tell me to let her sink and move on…my own brothers!…

my therapist tells me the same thing! A therapist!

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p style=”text-align:center;”>My heart tells me I can’t win, and that I am better just mourning the loss as if its real, because it is.

Vicarious Sanity

I think that I am slowly going insane – or something like it – day by day.
I say this because things have gotten fuzzy around the once sharp edges of life for me; details of each day that would’ve once mattered are unimportant and irrelevant to my moments now;

and that is what I live inside of these days, are moments.

Just moments at a time because that’s about all the sanity I have left to deal with my reality as it stands…which is an exceptionally unpleasant place.

If I allow myself to be the Me that I have always been – well, more like used to be – I will default to a bigger picture…planning ahead…the maintenance of control over my life’s general course whenever possible…reliability…stability…motivations and goals, etc. The evolved Me is unable to look beyond the next few minutes in life past the immediate and present tense; the evolved me lives paralyzed inside of a bubble that will inevitably burst. My life has gotten this way because my heart has opted to crawl out of my body and go its own way, one unknown to me. I still hear its beat, feel its pumping pulse in my veins; but my heart has left my body and vanished into the night.

The evolved me has adapted to be able to swallow the tragedies that I have lived – am still living – through.

The evolved Me is stuck on stupid, like somebody pushed pause or something and life just hasn’t continued to play right ever since.

AUTO-PILOT FUNCTION (AKA GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS):

My laundry somehow gets removed from the dryer and folded/hung up/put away during these Pilot Performances of mine; I spend a disturbing amount of time in frustrated conniptions over “missing” tops and sweaters that my Auto Pilot has already put up, completely forgetting(?) that I had spent 35 minutes of the afternoon putting my clothes away…

The constant need for physically exhausting motion and extreme mental/psychological stimulation i.e. terrifyingly scary movies or swimming in the ocean during January (wtf?)

The detachment from all good and positive sources.

The chronic and debilitating malfunction of my ability to give a shit about much of anything besides what the fuck went so wrong with my daughter to cause her to CHOOSE such tragedy time and again…

The obsession with my failures and the rejection of my worth.

All in all, I guess I’m just very tired of being so afraid of my ringtone…

of waiting for the other shoe to drop on my head…

I just want my daughter safe; so badly do I want her to be okay that I’d give up either or both of my eyeballs to heal her and give her the security she needs, even if it’s not with me. I ‘d turn over every ounce of my own self-worth or self-esteem to her, gladly. It’s so hard for me to understand…it’s so hard to accept.