I just can’t help
but to feed myself
with spitefully drawn
so very wrong
that go, naturally,
along with the feet
that have stepped on me.
I think of the tables
as they burn
the walls down
to the ground
And it’s good.
They call it karma
among the human race
they say that it is
they call it suitable
they say it’s irrefutable,
a wooden nickle,
a bloody trickle,
down from both
of my knees;
your words are said,
from an empty head,
so guess what?
I’m not listening.
I can’t seem
to force the reflex,
my inner apex,
is still feeding,
There can only be
only one ending,
to button up this scene,
it’s either gonna be you,
or it’s gonna be me,
pick your poison,
and swallow down quietly.
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…”
“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.”
I guess I just have it in my blood to trust the wrong people throughout my time on Earth amongst other human beings –or whatever you’d call those carbon-based, sets of bones with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly (or loosely) around each one, with seemingly emptied out, bobbling heads attached – I sure as Hell hate to call those things “people”.
I have mastered the unrewarding, often self-masochistic, pseudo-“art” of choosing the most shallow and self-absorbed individuals on whom to place importance and on whom to martyr my dwindling ability to trust. At some point in my life, I got to where I can no longer blame the vernacular beasts that I choose to surround myself with for such miserable incompatibility; sooner or later, I had to swallow the realities that I find consistently staring back at me through the eyes of my own reflection.
I eventually began to accept the fact that if I am incompatible with so “very, very many” of my own species, the likelihood of that incompatibility being born of the “shortcomings” of that group of “very many people” is low, if even in existence. I have truly realized and began to accept that I am the faulty common denominator in the countless equations of social arithmetic that I pathetically fail to wrap my thick head around – the continual negative sum in the mathematics of human behaviors and relationships – worthy or otherwise, I am the common denominator. PERIOD.
Naturally, the majority of “relationships” that I can stake any claim to throughout my scarce and, undoubtedly warped experiences within the realm of human intimacy have each been notably unhealthy in at least one major aspect. I do not know what it looks or feels like to be in a healthy relationship with anyone in a romantic context. In spite of the insatiable hunger and longstanding desire I remember always harboring to have this elusive, healthy thing. At the end of the day when all’s said and done – I wouldn’t recognize a healthy relationship if it came up and bit me in the face…how could I recognize something I’ve never seen before? I have only misidentified the chances that I might have had in the past at healthiness in a committed relationship with someone; I have only mistreated the good standings I’ve had with men who may have been exceptional if I had given them a fighting chance. I just can’t trust the words that people choose to waste on me anymore, at all – not women, not men – not anyone – ever, in any circumstance. My issues behind the inability to foster commitment run so deeply entrenched at this stage of “the game” that I have truly started to question whether or not any amount of therapy, strenuous physical exercise, or exhausting mental stimulation by the opposite sex could ever actually change my perceptions back to what I think that they once must have been.
I do not know if I find this revelation a good one or a horribly life-altering one, either. I have been behaving so ambiguously the past few years in general, in all honesty. It’s been very strange to feel so indifferently over everything – another HUGE shift from the person that I used always like to think I was; Life’s formerly Technicolor scenery has been replaced by a drabber, grey-scale version of it. The white noise of my existence resembles the constant, bellowing rolls of thunder that accompany the bolts of constant lightning that crack like live wires of energy gone awry: a chaotic soundtrack that perfectly mirrors my psyche and syncs naturally with my soul. During nighttime the soundtrack only shifts into the noise of a low-volume baseball game’s announcers and noise.
I have not lived a perfect life by any means; I don’t claim to have, and I am also much too self-aware to dare try. I know that I have let many people down along the way to where I stand now in life, and death. I know that my combative spirit is NOT the ONLY reason why I have survived as long as I have; I realize that I hold no special title to the world’s shallow, robotic inhabitants, nor would I like to if given the chance to hold one:
…a bunch of fuck-heads…
People disgust me with their’ all-consuming need to rise in rank – to “ever-aim-higher” – to continuously yearn for what ISN’T in a given existence…bigger, stronger, faster – better and worth more money…
Me: I don’t have this parasitic social handicap I suppose; because I could honestly care less about having bullshit possessions that I can carry around and flaunt – to show off to my heartless “friends”. I do not count the monetary value of my possessions against my own cha-cha in the Universe; I don’t ever let my head fill entirely up with the environmentally poisonous, bullshit hot air.
MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.
I’d trade anything I own in a nano-second in exchange for some sort of true comfort that Boo could eternally call hers – that nobody and nothing could ever steal from her. The rest of the world and the bullshit happening in it just seem so insignificant and muted to me – while my daughter spirals downward into what should have been her future. Her eighteenth birthday quickly approaches now – in May…and I carry so much fear and dread as well as excitement and relief over her coming of age and being set free. I’ve only recently opened my fucking eyes and seen the striking similarities between Boo and I in regard to commitment issues, somehow…not sure what the fuck I have been paying attention to, but it’s like a metric fuck-ton of bricks from the top of the Empire Reality Building have crumbled and landed on my head, in terms of Boo’s shiftiness.
Basically, somehow I have managed to totally overlook the FACT that despite my painstaking efforts when she was a baby and her father and I were together still – to protect her from seeing things that he’d done to me, in a wide and creative array of ways, trust me – she still KNEW. She always knew. Even before she knew that she knew, or what it was that she knew – she knew. I’ve always known this deep down in my heart, for obvious reasons…but as with my former drug addiction during the same era of her life, there’s nothing I can do un-do any of it, so other than to simply try and persevere onward and upward from those past mistakes of mine – there’s little I’ve ever been able to process surrounding any of it. Of course, she and I have always had issues over her father’s sudden and permanent absence from her toddler-hood; she remembers him being there always and then one day just not ever being there again. In her perceptions however, she does not recollect the FACT that I also disappeared from her life at the same exact time as he did – only temporarily. All these years later as a full grown woman, I see the unacknowledged trauma that must have created for Boo, in itself. She doesn’t deal with it properly because she has somehow warped her perceptions into something other than what they actually were. She would tell you that her father “just up and left me and my mom one day…”, which anyone who knows anything about our story knows wasn’t even close to how shit went down. She hardly ever even talks about my absence/injury/hospitalization period at all – never has.
These thoughts of mine have me wondering things about why it seems to be so much more difficult to really get through to her about ANYTHING. I’m realizing that her entire perception of all things shared between our life experiences, together or separately, is contrasting to my own.
…which brings me back to my original point with this:
Who then, in these instances between Boo and me, is the common denominator?