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.