My New Mom.

Because of the collective whirlwind effect created by the sudden appearance of, and the subsequent hijacking of any former Life by this hideous reality, this thing known only as “my mama’s terminal cancer”:

  • I pushed it to the limit with keeping her with me at my house (actually, just a single rented room in a home shared with 2 bachelors) and nearly bit off way more than my can possibly chew;
  • I nearly pushed myself to the point of no return in regard to my own sanity and my own abilities;
  • I allowed myself to totally reside on the back burner for too long, and in turn began the cycle of forgetfulness and neglect in light of my own basic needs and any prior commitments made before the nightmare of Anticipatory Grief entered my day to day existence.
  • I stiffened my upper lip and sucked it up – I refuse to ask anyone for anything in the context of help with my mom, especially my new mom, due to her total and complete lack of any sense of self.
  • I moved her to a place where she isn’t going to be waited on hand and foot like I had been doing for her – having such a personal caregiver isn’t a good routine for her overall independence, despite what she says now.
  • Since the move, she has slowly declined in mentality to the point where as of now, she is too confused to find or answer her phone 9 times out of 10; she still cannot walk on her own either for some reason; she forgets her medicines and forgets to eat, she doesn’t shower at a;; anymore unless she is made to do so; she has no sense of humor, the only remaining thing about my former mama was the crazy thick hair – but that has fallen out now.

 

It’s like I have slowly come to be caring for a total stranger; this person is nothing like my mama. My new mom is stoic and scowls at me for no reason; she snaps at me for offering to help her with things when she is struggling.

 

“I wish you would just get out of my face for a change!”

 

This was what she hissed at me on New Year’s Eve, when I showed up to surprise her with some sparkling cider and pizza. She said she was tired of seeing my face whenever she opened her eyes. I left well before midnight and cried the whole way home.

The Midway.

I don’t pretend to know,

which dagger of mine to throw,

you know, I’ve built up an arsenal,

the ubiquitous, carnivorous carnival;

 

the sound of a broke-down calliope,

worn through that last shred of sanity,

drawn to the worst magnetically,

out of the huge crowd of humanity;

 

but before you sink your fangs into,

such a back-stabber’s dream-come-true,

help me decide which blade best suits you,

to wear forever as defensive scar wounds.

Professional .

Muscles cramping,

frozen painfully,

disjointed wrists,

repetitive twist,

carpal tunneling,

fingers sorely swollen,

longwinded joint-rolling,

digital profundity,

wounded dorsally,

gone totally numb,

down the trapezium,

perpetual arthralgia,

a tedious income.

 

 

Sledgehammer.

Like a bus

that couldn’t stop,

its driver, legs locked-

board-straight,

baring down-

the desperate weight,

the failing of brakes;

beneath heavy feet,

where the tires

touch street

screeching, scraping

metal shavings

but, all forsaking

can’t quite stop

in time not to

run right over me.

The Sledgehammer swings,

it’s wielder, well-meaning-

momentous force-

impact to the chest

sets into course,

broken by the best

of darkness creeping

right in through

my own big mouth.

Still On Process.

In yet, another, whirlwind of dramatics and emotional shock, I am martyred by one or all of the others in this fucking hopeless situation. I am writing my commentary prior to a quoted copy the text message I received upon waking up yesterday morning – out of the fucking blue from my perception of things…I haven’t spoken to Boo since she was in the hospital in Arizona after she has been kidnapped, tortured and raped. It had been directly following that final contact that she decided (for no apparent reason outside of boredom?) to turn right around and make up some horrible bullshit story about our conversation. The story that she told my parents was nothing but lies, of course; and for once I had truth on my side, as they had both been standing right with me during the last time I was on the phone with Boo, so they knew that she was totally fabricating a story about me that was untrue as it gets. Neither of them say anything to her however, and so the whole thing served as just one more wedge Boo has put between she and I, and in my opinion: she does these types of things to me spitefully…there is just no other explanation.
So, unsurprisingly, she wound up in the hospital again two nights ago (I only received this information from my mother who promised to keep me posted) with “breathing difficulty”. She was close to being throttled to death at a tortuously slow pace with a belt by the man who kidnapped her only a month ago, she smokes methamphetamine like it’s her sport, she doesn’t eat right or take care of herself…so it really didn’t come as shock to me when she found herself having issues swallowing and/or breathing after another few days’ hard running; I didn’t react as if she were on her death bed somewhere. It has become rather difficult for me to even feel anything anymore, when it comes to Boo and her constant self-endangerment. I know that is awful, but it’s true…I almost feel as if any time or energy that I spend on her is just that – an expenditure…and one that I don’t have the means to cover after so many trips to the fucking bank with it.
Anyway, my mother went to see her without even updating me of the actual hospital or anything first; and proceeded to let Boo use her phone for whatever reason. On that phone, is EVERY text message that I have ever sent my mother (because my mom has no scruples at all when it comes to anyone else’ privacy etc.) and Boo read every last one. Needless to say, there were some recent messages that were not the definition of endearment in regard to her (SHE BEHAVES LIKE A FUCKING STREET RAT AND SHAMES ME REGULARLY); she hurt her own feelings by snooping through somebody else’s private shit, in essence.
I will be honest and admit that I DID send my mother a text during a volley we were having that pertained directly to the totally random bullshit song and dance that Boo made up after she and I last got off the phone. It hurts me deeply to be the first one that my ONLY child strikes at without a second thought; it is the most disheartening and discouraging notion to find out that your child badmouths you regularly – especially a child you have poured so very much into. I was hurt by the revival of Boo’s old ways regarding the lies she insists on telling about me, unwarranted lies that are damaging and lasting. I made the statement of:

“She is a hateful and spiteful little creature for telling you guys that…”

FROM: Boo
TO: Me

“I’m a spiteful and hateful creature…. You know what fuck you because a real mom would have been there for me when I was almost dying no matter what the situation is or was but, you’re selfish and you don’t want to be in my life this is just a way to get attention. I can’t believe you I wish you would just act like a Mom and not a sorry excuse of a sick person you blow my fucking mind you are crazy I’m glad you talk so much shit about me you are crazy and to be honest you need help but you already know that you don’t have any room to talk about me because you are even worse and is crazy how you can talk about your daughter like that when she’s in the hospital hanging by a thread you are sick and I can’t believe I still have love for you good luck in life and keep my name and life out of your mouth.”

Hum In The Air.

Traveling swiftly,
along in between,
the shuffling feet,
dropping and lifting,
to static frequencies,
over the threshold,
off of the streets,
into the bustling,
and humming,
of a million machines,
fostering,
the very needs,
of broken human beings…
over the sounds,
of the technology,
tubes and dressings,
Hallmark blessings,
I hear her breathing,
ever-steadily,
in the darkness,
over the chorus,
of the ticks, clacks,
hisses and beeps,
she breathes her way,
through the night,
thankfully,
to see another day,
that she’d preferably,
rather not even see,
which is sadly telling,
told by the many injuries,
outside and within,
the broken bones and skin,
all of the gods damned,
technologies and,
cures known to man,
won’t change anything,
the hand,
she’s been given,
the Hell,
that she must live in…
this was once my baby,
and she will,
always be,
worth so much more,
than what she perceives,
as reality,
no hope anymore,
of something in store,
hidden from the sight of me,
I hold my breath in,
unintentionally,
if I fail to register,
rhythmic machines,
over it all,
the patients in the halls,
the button to call…
the sound I faintly hear,
here and there,
along a stream-flow,
of the hospital air,
it’s dull and low,
but a sound I know,
all too well,
it’s the rewound,
haunting sound,
high-pitched,
helium,
voice to the face,
of my baby,
saying things like,
“Mommy please help me.”

Anaphylaxis.

The buzz was what caught my attentive gaze,
triangulated to my inner-left-ear,
I strained my eyeballs far to the right, without moving;
and, there it was – like a tightly wound, black cotton-ball,
dipping in and out of the day lilies,
a low-toned hum,
reverberating from its dark-winged fuzziness;
and I stupidly forgot…
my mind became invaded by other thoughts and memories,
I truly just forgot my own allergy,
how deathly allergic I am to this Blackbeard of Bees;
my thoughts were of you instead,
immediately upon the tone of the buzz inside my left ear,
the vibrating sound amidst the foliage and flowers,
I am on high alert naturally,
so fucking stuck in old ways, am I…
all I was focusing on in the moment as he flew closer to me,
was how very glad I was that he could not sting you,
that you are gone away from me,
and today this bumble bee will not drop your blood pressure,
not make you gasp and gag for your very breaths,
he will not shock you with anaphylactic,
he will not make you cry or hurt you –
not this one, not today…
and that was when he stung me;
and I lost pace with my heartbeat so quickly then,
thank the Gods I have that adrenaline pen;
truth is though, I was still victorious,
because he didn’t sting my Boo.

Mis-inconception.

My world has come to simply run,
from the hours along the clock’s face,
a faded, inglorious memory –
set to a graphic novel’s pace;
my brain fails to properly function,
a tongue that no longer senses the tastes,
a smoldering fire in the drizzle of rain –
a most unproductive state;
a heart awaiting my own execution,
a mind long-gone from the body it drives,
a residual pang that radiates –
a reminder that I’m still alive;
my anger has seethed past retrieval for me,
from the losses stuffed under this belt,
a mad scientist’s beloved contraption –
the most painful pride that I’ve ever felt;
my feet seem to fail to carry forward,
from the spot where I tread tearfully,
a high-speed human hamster wheel –
that has come to start getting the best of me;
time is not nice to the rebellious hearts,
building its blocks behind a jaded mask,
an immaculate mis-inconception –
of the answers to any questions asked.

Twice as Toothless.

By the time that I have forced myself to arrive,

the night before, spent doing headstands in misery;

by the time I check in, my vision is blurred,

and my hand signs my name on a page, shakily;

and, when I am called by a mask-clad technician,

my heart seems to pocket itself in my throat;

but the pain overrides my desire to hide,

its crushing waves barely leave me afloat;

I am shown to a recliner draped in plastic,

to catch all of the blood I’m expected to spill;

as I am lowered backwards, I bathe in bright light,

and then I’m directed to keep myself completely still;

the expectation of such a personal invasion,

has my every bone locked – rigor-straight;

the anticipation stabs at the thoughts I have,

my teeth randomly chatter as the pain radiates;

the technicians begin to prod and poke around,

and my nerves shred themselves into strings;

I remain still and silent against the clanging of tools,

hand-drills, icepicks, and other Gods-awful things;

my eyes instinctively close themselves

as each one drops a warm, heavy tear,

down both ridges on both of my of cheekbones

and silently drop themselves into my ears.

For a moment the buzz of the drill is blocked out,

and my body reflexively exhales to such reprieve;

the poking has ceased and my teeth fail to throb,

they have numbed me out successfully;

now, for the show to finally begin,

there’s a swarm of motion around my head;

they speak in a language I can’t understand,

I suddenly feel like I’m snuggly in my own bed;

I peel one eye open against the weight of the world,

to see nothing but blurred hands in my mouth;

at that very moment I think to myself:

“I think I’ll just sleep this one out…”

When I wake up, there are holes in my tender gums,

and bloodied surgeon gowns and gloves in the can;

I tongue my wounds and recoil at the generalized ache,

tomorrow brings a brand new, twice-as-toothless woman.

The “Unsecret” Dialogue Chronicles _ Series II _ Part 1

Part 1:

YANK

The tune to Another One Bites the Dust by Queen begins playing loudly as J’s personal ringtone on S’ phone.

 

S:       J, it’s 3:22am…you’d better be in need a blood transfusion or something…

The line is silent on the other end, eerily silent. Then muffled groans and agonizing noises gradually start to become louder in S’ ear.

S:       J….? Oi! J….? Hello? Hello, hello?….

J:        Esthhh…Esthh…ugghhhh….

S:       What the fuck is wrong with you? You off the wagon eh?

J:        Esthhh, I need you to come offfver, rught mow, pleathhz…

S:       J?! Are you alright? What’s happened why can’t you speak?

S is suddenly very alarmed by the fact that her friend is unable to speak without sounding like the Godfather (Brando) and a mouth full of cotton balls; she sits up and starts looking for her shoes and bag…

S:       I’m on the way, J…

J:        Uggghhhhhhh!!!!

S swipes off the phone and is out the door in a flash.

 

KNOCK. KNOCK-KNOCK. KNOCK.

 

S:       J, you have thirty seconds to open the door before it gets fire-axed…

J’s front door flies open with stale, smoky breeze.

J:        Ugggghhhhh!!!

J grabs S by the shirt and pulls her into the doorway, slamming it behind them as they both stumbled into the darkness of J’s hot-boxed apartment; J is still clinging fiercely to S’ shirt and basically hanging on her right side, limply.

J:        Thuuuude….thoo you haff any of thothe pilths leff from your thurgery, Esthh…?

S noticed a whining in J’s voice that she had never heard before; she lit a cigarette in the dark, allowing herself a look at her friend’s face at last.

S:       Awwwww, J….you look like you’ve been hit by a truck!!!

J:        Do you haff pilths?…in a fuckton of fuccckkking pain ober here Esthh…

S:       Let me see it…c’mon now, open your mouth…

After a momentary, but comically pathetic (on J’s part) struggle, S finally convinced J to open her mouth and show off the culprit.

S:       Nasty fucker. Sucks for you, I have no pills…I ate them all after my last tooth saga – remember how fucked up I was? Sigh

J:        Aye…I rumumba…hey…?

S:       Ye?

J:        How bout your pwiers? Got ‘em on you?

S:       My pliers?…Yes, always…but….seriously?…you’re in THAT much pain, J?

J:        Uh-huh…uggghhhhh!….fuck yeth…fuck yeth…get it the fucckk outh! Pleath, Esthh, pleath!!!

READ THE NEXT EPISODE HERE!

Sledgehammer.

deadinsideLike a bus

that couldn’t stop,

its driver, legs locked-

straight, baring down-

all the weight,

the failing of brakes;

beneath his feet,

where the tires

touch street

screeching, scraping

metal shavings

but can’t quite stop

in time not to

run right over me.

The Sledgehammer swings,

it’s wielder, well-meaning-

momentous force-

impact to the chest

sets into course,

broken by the best

of darkness creeping

in through

my own big mouth.

TwiLight Zoned.

This weekend has been rather odd, to say the least…
My Twilight Zone Weekender technically began on Thursday – when the Opportunist sent me a super out-of-the-blue succession of “apologetic” (narcissistic and self-serving attempts at control) text messages; and it only got more strange and fucking out there as the weekend rolled on.
Friday, my doctors told me that my heart is technically failing; “but it’s a lot more scary sounding than it actually is…” my thing regarding the failure of my heart is simple: my father, a Nam Vet – a tough, tough guy – a survivor in his own right – was dropped dead by Congestive Heart Failure when I was thirteen years old, he was 42…I’m now 35 ½ years old. Dun dun dun!!! Anyway, despite the fact that I have lived through the most extreme of the extreme in terms of medical procedures and what not, the heart thing terrifies me. And so the journey through mindphuq – bodyfuq began.
Saturday morning, my heart woke me up again; hurting…hammering…stealing my breaths from my lungs and forcing my body temperature to freeze, inappropriately. I was sick several times during the early morning hours; but then the nausea subsided, and my right shoulder/chest began to throb and stab at its own insides, instead. I gave up the uncomfortable tosses and turns around 7:00am, and rolled out of bed to the unwelcome change-in-routine of ‘no coffee’. I was queasy, so ‘no coffee’ wasn’t so bad after all.
I was stupid enough to open a letter I’d received the night before from Boo; a feat in itself, seeing as how I normally create a huge issue over (my own bullshit psychological road-blocks) before pretty much forcing myself to begrudgingly rip open the envelope covered in her teenaged girl bubble letters, hearts, and arrows. I don’t know why I didn’t experience this inner-boxing match with this letter, but either way – I opened yesterday’s letter without a second thought for the most part…it’s been so long since I had any interaction with Boo at all; I guess I was just hungry for her words – no matter venomous or otherwise. Her letter was likely one of the most hollowing I’ve received from her since her return to the facility where she is caged out of state; she is so detached and dissociated – going through the motions – writing the letter she thinks she is supposed to write…she’s so sad and depressed and says several times that she misses me; she talks about how she’s been on lock down for over a week because of the illegal actions of other girls who reside there.
Getting mail from Boo is always a chop to my windpipe; I admit that I have so much anxiety surrounding her upcoming 18th birthday in May that I sometimes feel like I literally might spontaneously combust.
I can say that I have a very deep understanding and respect for the saying: “Being eaten alive by guilt.”
This is why dissociation has become part of my day to day survival, and possibly that of other specific individuals involved in Boo’s tragic experience under the “care” of the Juvenile Courts and the Department of Family & Children’s Services; without “psychological escapism” – I would not be able to survive. That is an unquestionable truth in my Life, as sad and lacking of stability as it may be.
When I think too long about shit regarding Boo, when I get slapped in the face and am reminded so vividly of her pain and suffering – suffering that goes coldly overlooked and disregarded by anyone close enough to reach out and hug her or even just sit with her, even not say fucked up shit to her that makes her questions of herself spin out of control – when I think too long about any of it, my chest feels like it’s caving in, like it’s been sprayed with liquid nitrogen, or my lungs have been sprinkled with solvent – the tissue is dissolving slowly with a chemical burn sting. I was struggling to get my breath; my draws would not allow me to inhale completely without shooting a bolt of lightning through my chest cavity. My shoulder continued to pinch and stab throughout the entirety of the day; I fell asleep with my arm slung up over a body pillow wrapped back over my head, looking and feeling very much like a pretzel. I slept like shit; but woke up with considerably less chest/shoulder pain, and the ability to breathe much easier.

And…today went on to be also oddly out-of-the-ordinary…
I spent the day today with The Opportunist (kind of). The quick run-down behind this circumstance is as follows:

1. It’s Sunday (male chauvinist football day in the U.S.)
2. I live in what would otherwise be a Bachelor Pad, given my absence in the household.
3. The Opportunist and one of my roommates (“The Good Bunkie”) go all the way back to childhood together.

I’m sure you can do the math there.

Apparently, his failed attempts at contacting and connecting with me the other day didn’t fix his monkey; because here he came today, tortilla chips and salsa dips under one arm – and I shit you not – an array of MY very favorite things under the other, ranging from flowering cacti, to flavored rolling papers, to Granddaddy Kush. Wow…I accepted his offerings with a smile and a nod before disappearing into the safety of my hallway that leads me away from the “man cave”, with a stiff “thank you” in passing.
Of course, me being the NON drama queen that I am (and yes, I am bragging…this is one of my favorite things about myself, in comparison to others I know), I never the bombardment of (pretty pathetic) text messages that The Opportunist sent the other day to the Good Bunkie because, well, why would I? He would only feel the need to be defensive for his lifelong friend, and it wouldn’t be a comfortable position for him to be in…so I don’t say shit to him about his lying, opportunistic, shit-talking, two-faced friend. Not my place to do so. Coming from a woman who grew up in a household full of men, boys and – me, you better trust and believe that I know what time it is when it comes to the old “Bros before Hoes” scenario. I don’t stir that pot.
Anyway, my day actually consisted of spending no time with The Opportunist, unless being in the same square footage vicinity counts. He WAS INDEED sitting on my couch all day, watching football…just like old times…but the only way I knew he was here was because once in a while his cry-baby whining voice would drift down the hall into my domain. Otherwise, I spent the day either doing yard work or in my own quarters. But still…a very weird day…a very tiresome weekend.
Tomorrow’s another day, ya’ll.