Do Your Part.

Recently, as a white woman with countless privileges that I have, admittedly, always taken for granted, I’ve obviously been deeply pondering where my place is in all of the chaos and suffering that my fellow human beings are (and always have been) enduring as a result of their’ heritage. I am not playing the “black friends card” when I say that several of my best and most deeply cherished friends on this Earth are Black; it’s a truth of mine that I have always had with me and never really had to think about too much, for whatever reason. I have cousins who are half Black; my Aunt is Black. They are my blood relatives; we have the same blood coursing through our veins, truth.
Now, as my family, close friends and I are miserably trying to compartmentalize and process the sad and hideous truths violently seeping through the fabric of our shared culture here in the United States of America, I see for the first time in my life that despite the innate acceptance and truly pure bond present in my mindset, personally, in terms of the many Black People that I know and love, there’s a dauntingly larger population of hateful, dis-informed, self-worshiping white people who harbor the most ill of will towards my loved ones over such a subjective factor as the pigment of their’ skin.
And while I, as an experienced lover of ALL people from ALL backgrounds, ethnicity and cultures, can sleep at night, knowing that beneath the skin of every human being, lies the uniform and universal genetic material that makes us each Human siblings, I’ve also realized with a sobering certainty that we are NOT all Human any longer.

There are those among us are no more advanced or refined than vicious, wild animals.

Pretentious white moms driving through Starbucks in minivans; nurturing brainlessness in white-priviledged broods of sadistic bigots who represent the unceasing entitlement complex that defines 5 out of 10 white people in this country, sadly.

White men who claim to be accepting of others in public, while snickering at the idea behind closed doors; making horribly unfunny jokes at the expense of those who look different from them and their’ beloved corn-fed roots.

I realize that who I am, have always been, could not be any more disparate from these lowly creatures, despite the shared physical appearance between us. I realize that I would no sooner stake any kindred claim to these beings then to cut off my own arms and send them down the river. The relationships with my Black loved ones have become strained; as I am very aware of the cold, hard fact that the actions and lifestyles of racist whites naturally reflect on me, in turn.

And that shit hurts.

As a longtime underdog, the Americanized version of the word “Liberty” truly disgusts me beyond description. And, that’s coming from a white woman’s mouth. Beneath my own experiences with the unfair judicial system, multi-faceted corruption and perversely incentivized social service programs, I can also hear the muffled whispers of generations worth of Black Lives in this country desperately trying to get a deeper, much more ever-present terror across the boundary of judgement.

That age-old haunt of:

 “I am just one person, what difference can I honestly make?

comes screaming to the surface of my mind everyday lately; and, unbelievably, it stills seems to hold at least some sway, even in these crazy times when, yes: one person’s staunch support, one person’s quiet voice, one refusal to look the other way when so much unjust destruction is consuming our fellow human beings, can indeed make all the difference in the situation…one person at a time.

This “I am just one person” sentiment has hushed and smoothed over collective urges good white people harbor to bust a grape on racial terrorism and injustice in our society for God knows how long now. All white people are more fearful, uncertain and out of their’ privileged element lately, be they good and sympathetic to the movement or evil racist oppressors.

And lately I see so clearly, that this sentiment is lie.

Racism is a lie. (By that, I mean that the foundations racism is built upon are all lies.)

Prejudice and racially based injustice are long-standing, widely accepted lies.

Generational white privilege is a self-taught lie that white people must stop re-telling white children.

Adorning myself in bad makeup and ranting about my friendships with Black people will not help this issue; this issue goes so much deeper and further back in time to be solved by self-righteous pawns in so-called well meant missions that boil down to those same peoples’ lasting ability to comfortably look themselves in the mirror every morning.

I realize that no matter the blood relation between cousins, the shared upbringing, any family roots between us, they have lived an entirely different existence from mine because they don’t share the privileges I have always taken in stride in my own admitted negligence.

And that is how I feel now, is: negligent…self-absorbed, even clueless in the face such widespread terrorism and suffering around me.

I support the uprising of all human beings who are striving toward a more balanced and culturally intertwined society.

I sympathize with my Black friends who have a hard time looking at me right now.

I support the rebellion against “the man” who forced a group of people to evolve in this country while being hated and mistreated all the while, under an oppressive, invisible thumb.

Lastly, and in conclusion to this scattered mess of personal introspection: I support fellow good human beings – black, white, brown, beige, red and yellow.

I have recognized and banished the lies surrounding racism from my existence, and encourage every person to do the same.

Dismantle the KKK and shame them for being the scar on our society that they truly are.

Stop painting your faces black in attempt to be supportive – it’s offensive and immature.

Do your privileged part to wipe out the cycle of suffering in so many Black Lives. Whether you know any Black people or not.

The destruction and suffering of Black Lives might not ever be able to heal, but it can be shut down as it should’ve been long ago. And every single person needs to be doing whatever they can to usher in a future that looks drastically different from today’s U.S. Snapshot.

Flock.

Let’s be like herded sheep, shall we?

and stand in line for centuries,

like in mind to the dullest ancestries,

let’s evolve without changing anything…

now, we all line up without questioning,

spend money on shit that has no meaning,

nothing to show have we “sentient beings”,

besides the bombs we can blow atomically…

we watch the World News from home on TV,

bump our gums about what we’d do differently,

but at the end of the day, that logic is shifty,

coming from a cesspool of such inactivity…

Let’s line up overnight to see a premièring movie,

then trample each other with the doors’ opening,

we each do what we like without ever considering,

how the rest of the sheep want other sheep things…

and sadly things will only become more trifling,

because sheep are too stupid to know anything,

unable to think on one’s stand-alone feet,

we are all doomed ‘til we stop acting like sheep.

Deal Re-Breaker.

There’s this threshold inside of my brain that others either cross in a grain cut painfully against me, or never cross at all. It is a horrid barrier that I’m sure I have created myself; but it is a sound and solid barrier, all the same – an impenetrable construct by my own mind, immovable in my own mind. This is a threshold that grants closeness and kinship or falseness and nothingness between me and other people who come into my Life.

 

It’s hard to explain, but I’ve been trying my best when it gets brought up by (a) certain (male) people (person) whom I struggle to maintain “healthy relations” with:

 

  1. the way that my ability to even experience anything good or positive with an individual diminishes completely once I feel the slightest bit of vulnerability to him, because I am fucked up and my brain doesn’t work normally.
  2. the way that after I experience any vulnerability on a conscious level on his behalf, I seem to automatically try to sabotage everything.
  3. the way that if sabotage fails, I will resort to some innate mechanism of my emotions to execute the process of shutting down to him.
  4. the way that I spend the entire time this hideous process plays out in hating myself and constantly having to re-focus myself on what’s right, as opposed to what feels right.

 

 

 

So What Do You Do?

What do you do when the knowledge finally seeps through?

Can you enjoy your freedom with the enslaved watching you?

What do you do when you have too many mountains to move?

Will you dirty your own hands trying to dig up the truth?

Can you worry about only the things that you pick and choose?

The trivial nuisance of something like gum on your shoe,

the convivial looseness of someone who means nothing to you;

What do you do when the call has rung loudly through?

Can you hurry out and scream about things you must do?

Will you fizzle out and fade away like so many before you?

What do I do when it’s time to reach out and grab onto,

The material rips, my fingers stick with pin pricks of VooDoo,

the unusual fits that linger and stick in the thick of the shit you do.

More (Scattered) Thoughts.

I’ve written about it before, the way the shine went out of my mom’s eyes upon the death of her mother; I’ve written about the extended period of mourning and bereavement that she experienced (and continues to experience in many ways, even now); I’ve written about the weird things she did after her mom passed away late one night, i.e. refusing to take off the sweater that belonged to my grandma for at least a year afterwards, or the taking up of chain-smoking cigarettes like it was a sport and she held the title of Champion (she is now paying for those solo marathon smoking fests that sometimes lasted throughout the night on the front porch of her former home). I have written about all these intricacies belonging to the grief that seems to have drained the life right out of my mama in the end; and I have picked apart the ins and outs to the responses and behaviors attached to my (former) mom’s processing of it all. I can now say that I honestly and thoroughly understand and comprehend on a deep level: how and why the shine left her eyes with the emotional blow of her mom’s death – I can see the shine going dull in my own eyes little by little too, if I dare look into a mirror. My skin has changed in texture and color, my mouth perpetually wears a frown – my shoulders sag, I sigh a lot, and deeply.

I have also been on an emotional kind of high-alert in regard to my mom’s feelings and her personal level of overall peace throughout her recent diagnosis of cancer (her death sentence) and the subsequent nightmare-esque circumstances that have become our day to day existence. I have been watching her stiffen her lip and put on the dog through it all, telling herself and everyone else that she doesn’t think cancer is going to kill her, and things like that. I have been able to sympathize with her and what she’s going through all along so far for the most part; but I still can’t seem to bring myself to imagine the world after she’s gone…

I have written about my many longstanding issues with my mom stemming from childhood; I have written about the many years we let pass by hardly knowing one another at all; and the things we knew about each other were not born of fond sentiment (on my own part, at least). I have always been so afraid to turn out like my mom did – the way my young brain has molded her in my recollections from early on – raving and spitting mad, a foul-mouthed Squaw, the drunken breaker of my mine and my brothers’ hearts. I spent so long in judgment of her for how she dealt with the loss of her youngest child, my brother JJ; for how she never allowed me to even mention him in her engaged presence after his tragic death; for how she never acknowledged his hurt and pain, even after he was gone – like I am anyone pass judgment on anyone – look at my kid, for Gods sake. I see so many things differently nowadays, and am glad that I have had the chances to accept her as she is while she was still able to comprehend that acceptance and appreciate what it all meant to both of us.

It’s a weird jumble of thoughts that have been swimming been around in my head and heart lately; and it’s all rather hard to put into words, if not impossible, but I want to try:

I see that we are each, indeed, creatures made of the same stardust – all of us.

I see how it’s a fact of Life – the very essence of Life – everything we do and everything we are is seeded by our parents; each thought that we have, even subconsciously, somehow and on some level ties back to the ones who bore us, nurtured us or contributed to our young lives; the moments when we think out loud and say things that we don’t even completely understand to ourselves, or when we quietly chuckle at a distant memory  from our childhood – it’s all loosely, but surely woven into the very essence of the many individualized notions of love, of being loved, of loving the best we know how to love, to the bitter end of Life…be it ours or our parents’ end, it will be the most bitter taste that the other has ever had to swallow. I know that the sun will not cease to shine on the day after my mom lets go of this world; I know that things will carry on like they always did: cars will drive people to work, and people will get married and babies will be born and my family will eat dinner together somewhere and drunkenly celebrate my mama’s Life…I just can’t picture it.

 

On a lighter note, I got a new job at the cemetery/mortuary today. And I’m not being horribly un-funny either, I am serious. I’ll be keeping books in the back offices, but I think it’s rather fitting all the same…a place where you are encouraged to wear black or dark colors to work EVERYDAY; a place where you aren’t allowed to laugh in the hallways for any reason, a place where you get kudos for the most sullen look in the office. I thought it was perfect. And apparently, so did they.

Not How It Was Meant To Be.

My mom’s cancer diagnosis has turned into my own waking fucking nightmare in every possible way. In the beginning, In the very beginning, I committed myself to going through her treatment regimen  with her, as a supportive and constant and compassionate presence for her to depend on. This was when she was living at home, before she got pneumonia, when she was still fairly physically mobile and very mentally capable. Since the ICU, everything about my mom’s situation has been altered abruptly and uncomfortably for me.
Suddenly, she can’t go home to her own house because it’s not safe for her to be there for various reasons respective to her ability to heal from chemo and now, pneumonia as well. This doesn’t even take into account, the C Dificil infection she is barely recovered from, either. Nor,  does it mention the 12 tanks of oxygen needed at all times now. I haven’t been able to sleep for going on two weeks already, and I feel like tonight  (the night my mom is released from her scary hospitalization) marks just the beginning of a fucking living hell. It has already begun. I am sitting in the kaiser parking lot fuming while the pharmacy fixes the nurse’s fuck-up on my mom’s meds so that we can finally get the fuck out of this horrendously miserable place. But its not as if that means anything to me, though, as its the aftermath of all this fucking bullshit that’s probably going to drive me to fucking kill myself, or die of a massive fucking coronary. The stress and pressure of so much misdirected responsibility is fucking immense, and I do not appreciate any of what’s happening at all. After this absolutely chaotic and miserable experience of becoming a full-time caregiver to a mother who is meaner now than she ever was, I will no longer be willing to be the compassionate person I wanted to be. I no longer want to bring my mom to all of her appointments and support her like I committed to, not when I’ve somehow been forced into becoming a fucking full time caretaker. This is fucking horseshit. I understand people cant prepare for things like cancer, but I am absolutely disgusted by the absolute lack of planning whatsoever for simply the event of a serious medical emergency or basic aging. As a result of her poor choice in a “mate”, her total lack of any kind of organizational skills, and her obsessive compulsive lifelong  hoarding, I have suddenly and completely been thrown into the very unwelcome role of being THE ONLY person to CONSTANTLY care for her like I am a personal fucking nurse. The worst part about all of this is that my mom is in full blown denial about everything. She is delusional. She is mean and shitty to me as I bend myself into a pretzel to not leave her on her own, as she will be without me. THIS is NOT how I want to remember her; I did NOT want to grow even more embittered and resentful towards her at the end of her fucking life. But guess what? It didn’t matter what I wanted when she was healthy; and it matters even less now. My stepfather literally disappeared, she cant find him and he has not seen her once since she got put into ICU. She suddenly wants to divorce him (though, understandably) but who do you think has to take care of all that paperwork and emailing, lawyering and mailing, etc? Mom sure can’t. My brother has been useless, as have any and all of my mother’s siblings save for one, who is only around at random and when her hair looks good or whatever; she does this so she can rub in my mom’s face how healthy she is. I don’t really like her, never have. And really, she hasn’t been here to help with my mom at all when I really think about it, she went ahead and had Xmas at her house (a 45 min drive from mine) and insisted we come, which was Hell. She says things like,

“You are so capable, you can do this, you don’t give yourself enough credit…”

She says these things to me from the other side of her champagne glass with her pinky finger stuck in the air, standing in her massive kitchen, built on a sprawling winery property that she owns. She says this to me as I am worrying nonstop about how I am going to pay rent this month, as I have not worked since my mama’s diagnosis, being so directly tied to her treatment and subsequent rapid decline.

Daunted By Joy.

I must have read it somewhere in each and every piece on terminal cancer that I have pored over since her diagnosis…references to:

“The people you least expect to offer any kind of support to you during this chaotic time will surprise you while those you were certain you could depend on will be nowhere to be found…”

Since my mom’s admission to the ER and subsequently, the ICU and so on, I have been trying to ignore the nagging buzz in my inner ear surrounding my mom’s overall situation at home. I have been trying super hard NOT to judge my dad for letting her sink so low, without even noticing she had such a bad fever and was deathly ill until it was literally just an inarguable fact that she was in some serious trouble; and needed serious help. Like I wrote before, this had been the VERY FIRST DAY I left her alone all day – and look where she ended up before 8pm. Needless to say, I have some serious concerns about her well-being; given the fact that she was quite apparently not being cared for properly BEFORE her chemo dance with death to the tune of septic pneumonia; how can I expect that she will be adequately looked after NOW, being released from the hospital following a closely related (to the lack of care she received that day) near-death experience? Mom will be coming home with me for at least the next few days (I am both overwhelmed with joy and thoroughly daunted at the same time by this reality), through Christmas at least. I can’t bear the thought of sending her to her home and dropping her off to be overlooked and not taken care of during such a crucial time for her ongoing survival.

My dad has been such a dick throughout this whole thing…he has been shining my mom everyday – not showing up at the hospital to see her or never bringing her the stuff she asked for. Not answering his phone or calling back. Not showing up at the job that I’m totally winging in order to cover my mom’s standing commitments to her former clients to let bring me supplies or to help me meet a deadline. It’s been a fucking insane week for everyone, and apparently he has slept through most of. I understand that we all deal with grief differently, and he is probably really heartbroken and distraught. But the fact that he has allowed Boo back in full-time in my mom’s absence has things really fucked up between my parents again at present. And the creature I gave birth to, Boo, can’t just do the right thing, can she?

So, basically, my mom feels as if my dad has “chosen Boo over her” again…and he is just oblivious with his fucking head further up his ass every day, it seems…

I refuse to have any contact with my daughter; while my parents have allowed her to remain a constant presence in their home, despite her many violations against them in the face of their kindness. And now, this leaves us in quite the predicament, because I can’t go home with my mom to her house and take care of her when Boo is smoking meth in the next room. It’s fucking absurd, how my dad won’t open his fucking eyes and just kick my drug-addict hooker daughter the fuck out so that MY MOM CAN RECOVER FROM FUCKING PNEUMONIA IN HER OWN HOME. I am at a loss as to what to do about any of it…I just know I can’t possibly send my mom into that environment as it is now, and won’t even consider it. Gods damn it, she pulled through this recent crisis, and she should have a good Christmas without the worries associated with her living situation…it’s most likely her last one…how does my dad not give a fuck about that?

Right.

So, I guess I am NOT safe to post my own stuff on my own blog, out of fear of triggering some psychopathic stranger across the country with MY OWN PERSONAL content…people are truly despicable, aren’t they?

When my mom was diagnosed with terminal cancer, but still somewhat herself, and I decided that I was committing myself to her treatment schedule with her, I was in the process of “getting to know” this person from afar. This person and I had, up until that time, been quite compatible for the most part; we had been growing rather close and spending at least 3 hours on the phone each day. This person had begun to show some alarming behavior just prior to mom’s diagnosis i.e. openly planning to move to my state, getting my name tattooed on his arm, and other things like asking me the question of:

 

“What would you do if I just showed up on your doorstep one day?”

 

And, opting to be overly butt-hurt when I responded negatively to such a disturbing query, to boot. I don’t think he ever quite grasped why such a question made me squirm, either, somehow. He began interrogating me regularly, based on old posts he would obsess over on my blog; he began to constantly swing between hating me and calling me horribly inappropriate names and being madly in love with me and promising he’d love me no matter what I was going through. Then, my mom was diagnosed.

This is the same person who called me “staggeringly cruel” for opting to focus on my mother’s health issues, in his trademark passive-aggressive way, and then back-peddling all over when he realized how fucking out of line it was to do such a lowly thing.

For me, it all died right then and there.

During the initial days of the diagnosis, amid the shock and associated dysfunction on my part, this person found it necessary to blow up my phone with cruel and hateful messages regularly, in spite of his awareness of what I was dealing with. The selfishness and cruelty of this person shone through brightly, to put it simply. Everything and anything that had come before between us went out the window.

He continued to comb through my entire blog daily, as a creeper without ever liking anything or letting his presence be seen anymore; he literally wiped clean every single sentiment he ever dedicated to me prior to that, too, like a light switch. He obviously wasn’t able to see beyond his own neediness and immaturity to NOT internalize the things that were happening in my life. People can be so unbelievably blind when it serves them to be.

Next, someone pointed out to me how this person was coat-tailing my readers, I didn’t and still don’t give two fucks about this. Then, someone else talked to me about the new direction that this person online presence had taken (a charity case), and I still didn’t really care too much – – – it’s none of my business what this person does. Go for it, dude. Right? Wrong.

Yesterday, I posted a poem that I wrote several months ago about someone I know in real time (many of my long-time readers can likely piece together who it might have been written about, I’m sure). I can’t write anything fresh at present due to my total lack of attention span (note: all the recent re-blogs in place of newly written content). Somehow this person completely took my post out of context and once again mastered the art of making MY PERSONAL CONTENT all about HIM, somehow; he then proceeded to totaling attacking me and striking out at me (totally out of nowhere in my own perception, mind you). Basically, just more of this person behaving like the buffoon that he so obviously is at heart. He again chose the route of sending me paragraph-long text messages insulting me in every possible fashion and acting all holier than thou.  He did this knowing that I was sitting in the fucking ICU with my mother as she circles the drain (he even said, “don’t try to give me a guilt trip…” when I reminded him of my location and circumstances. His accusations and self-projections made absolutely NO SENSE AT ALL. Why would I write a poem about him at all, much less – right now, so many weeks after my feelings changed for him? If I wanted to talk shit about him and what he’s doing, why would I start now? Why wouldn’t I have done it already like when his cruelty still stung? Right, I wouldn’t. I have REAL problems to deal with. Why should I care if he wants to be sponsored by some anonymous strangers online? For the record, and for ALL to read: I DON’T.

 

Eye-rony.

Wow, the irony in everything is just overwhelming to me at the moment…

I cancelled our Christmas reservation in the cozy Gold Country B&B yesterday; needless to say, my original plan to go with or without anyone else has fizzled into a memory from a time when the world looked and felt quite different; what was that, like two weeks ago or something? We had both been so looking forward to the trip, too…the very FIRST thing we ever planned together…surely the last one, too…

Mom says we’ll go in the springtime; I smile at her and wink from across the room. I smile and nod a lot to her agreeably, in spite of the tears stinging behind my eyes constantly and unrelentingly. I honestly look like I’ve aged like 10 years in the past week, and don’t give two fucks about it.

So, here’s my newest tangle within myself:

My readers know I have issues…with my Mama, myself, and the past. With her being given a death sentence and failing so suddenly and totally, obviously those issues have begun to kick for the surface. I am trying to remain realistic about things, and have accepted the fact that this is going to leave me with some newborn causes for sessions with the over-caffeinated tree squirrel, regardless of how it all actually unfolds.

Historically speaking, my mother is impossible to please, truly she is…I’ve written about it before. She is NEVER satisfied with the job I’ve done at anything, there’s always something I left off or did incorrectly. Willow gives away little affection, and what she gives, comes guardedly and with strings attached. So, since she has been diagnosed and had to begin treatments and all sorts of degrading and invasive medical procedures, there has not been a single instance in which she has even seemed remotely satisfied with anything I’m doing; be it the way I pilot her wheelchair around the hospital, the way I wash her laundry, the way I pack her bag in the morning, or even how I tie her shoes. It’s been a lot of instances with me trying my best to make her as comfortable as humanly possible, and her being absolutely miserable no matter what I do. I do realize she is in a very bad place, and not much will give her any joy or happiness, per se, but that doesn’t make the fact that I can’t even make her smile bear any less weight on my heavy heart.

The cough:

The coughing is literally non-stop right now; and, please do trust me when I say that I fully understand that this element is NOT harder on ANYBODY than her; she has spent the past two weeks solid in gasping for breath and panicking when it won’t come. Does anyone reading this have the slightest clue what it is like to watch your Mama suffocate from the inside before your very eyes – – – all day, every day – all night, every night? It is sheer terror in its own right, such an absolutely helpless and resigned emotion has crawled into my lap for a while, I guess…

People have said nothing but supportive things to me like,

 

“Spend as much quality time as you can with her…”,

 

or

 

“Tell her whatever you feel it’s important she knows before it is too late…”

 

The problem with this wise theory in our circumstance, however, is that she can’t speak anymore because of the gods damned cough; and she can’t hear anything I say to her over the awful fits of coughing, either. I haven’t been able to communicate anything to her on that level so far….they say the treatment will help to shrink the mass and her cough will get better; that she will get some relief from the chemo, gods willing. But in the meantime, it’s been horrendously difficult all the way around.

Yesterday, I became so irritated that almost smoked a cigarette while she was here at my house. She left this morning with my aunt (her sister, who is a yuppie, and barely found time for my mom even when she was still healthy) for chemo. I have been with her at the hospital every day since last Wednesday, and felt like if I went one more time without a break, I would end up being unfair and out-of-line to my poor mom out of the monotonous irritability that has built up. 8 hours at a time of chemo every day is hardcore, I’m told. I apologized to her last night while we ate dinner for being such a snippy bitch yesterday (I almost want to say that I am having mood swings lately, as the snippiness can seem to just appear out of nowhere with me) and I explained to her that it ISN’T her or anything she’s doing…she understood. She understands, she told me with her eyes – she’s been telling me a lot with her eyes lately, a connection I wasn’t even aware that she and I have until the fucked up event of her terminal cancer.

 

 

“Wait…what?” (In My Stupid Valley-Girl Voice)

“Happy Holidays!”

The kid’s only like 17, just doing his job as cashier.

“Yeah, yeah fuck off.”

I can’t help myself…and I thought I used to hate the holidays…

 

Aye, it’s official; I would forget my head pretty wherever I go right now, if the fuckin thing wasn’t attached to my body…I stashed my phone in the refrigerator door yesterday, and proceeded to search myself into a frenzy for an hour before being forced to leave without it…luckily, one of the guys took it out and put it on my bed with a note that read,

 

“You might wanna check your purse and make sure you don’t have a quart of milk somewhere loose in there.”

 

I walked out of the store earlier without the ginormous 20 pack of toilet paper I had already purchased, somehow…yes, I am a scattered wreck…at least I remembered the toilet paper before I started the car and drove home. I forget huge parts of my life, in all honesty…it’s an element of detaching that I am already quite familiar with…but, it’s extra severe right now.

 

I don’t forget to be genuine though,

I never seem to forget my deeply feeling nature,

I don’t PICK and CHOOSE which elements of my world I’d like to swipe aside or delete,

I don’t get a say in which elements will become painfully renewed and re-surfaced

 

One thing I don’t really understand about what seems to be the better majority of people, is how capable they are of simply PICKING and CHOOSING human elements to add or delete from their lives as they see personally necessary…it’s sad. It’s sad because it seems to me that more and more people have become “the emotional light switch”: completely capable and comfortable with an interchangeable warm body beside them. Whatever, light switch people SUCK…it’s crazy how soon we forget things we say to others, things we swear by – define ourselves with – take oath to…for it to mean nothing more than a few deleted web pages and a disturbingly seamless shift in one’s focus.

People are fucking lame.

That’s another thing I can’t seem to forget.

A Fucking Rant #2.

Why doesn’t anyone just come out and say it? …That our country is RUINED in terms of political standing with itself; that our country is no nation in the true sense of the word; that our country is, indeed, the quite laughable notion made in jest during a drunken gathering of the Gods or whatever…that we have fallen to shambles from the top to the bottom of the stars and the stripes.

Nobody admits out loud how telling it is that this election has been responsible for the drawing of countless distinctive lines in the dirt between countless formerly undivided unions of all sorts.

Nobody admits out loud that we are each scared as Hell by the choices put out before us to choose this country’s future President from.

Nobody seems to want to acknowledge the deeply disturbing realities attached to the fact that we have reached such a low point in our nation’s history in the first place; not to mention talking about how at the end of the day, it’s US who have allowed this atrocity to unfold.

Nobody talks about how divided we are by the same things that divide every nation everywhere, throughout history, tried and true: class, greed, and religion.

Religion = politics;

Politics = religion;

The class you fall into ultimately decides which level of education you receive, your education forms your own notions and opinions about the world around you, you either become a greedy victimizer of others or you are repeatedly victimized by greed, you pay taxes to a chauvinistic hypocrite with two air holes in his head like a fucking whale hybrid or something, and then you die and are interred according to your religious beliefs. The end.

A Fucking Rant.

I swear to the Gods: I get no relief from ANYTHING, NOT EVER. I am so crushed into a little, teeny ball of angst that remains plastered up against the wall at all times. I NEVER get space to myself for any amount of time that does me any good – enough time to replenish my frenzied brain or my anxiety ridden body…my roommates are both fucking slobs without a care in the world for anyone else’s comforts or preferences; they both carry on as if they live completely alone when it comes to things that effect all of us; and I am fucking sick of it. I am fucking sick of the way that they seem to almost work in unison to deprive me of alone time – one leaves and the other comes home, etc.

I’m sick of their faces right now, sick of looking at them both with their carefree expressions every day; I am sick to death of the way that one of them watches the same fucking shit Television shows and the same two or three James Bond films over and over and over. Or how he insists on playing his music with the bass turned up so loud, I cannot concentrate on my own tasks in my own bedroom. I am sick of how little common sense gets applied to situations when it comes to either one of them, too…instead of sliding the empty pizza box on its side BEHIND the recycling can, stupidly and mindlessly opting to COVER THE ENTIRE CAN by setting it over the top, instead…wtf sense does that kind of shit make???

Or how my house looks like we’ve been camping in the living room and billiard room for going on 3 months now, as my roommate is also too fucking lazy to put his gear away after using it. The cycle goes like this repeatedly, too:

He pulls out all of his gear and goes camping

he comes home and literally dumps his shit in the billiard room (the room that the front door leads directly into)

he leaves his shit strewn all over the fucking house until he goes camping again

repeat

repeat

then he gets some wild hair up his fucking ass sometime in early December or so to clean up the fucking indoor campsite at random and puts the shit into the garage (but doesn’t put it up where it all belongs though)

before long, it’s time to go camping again and it all starts anew.

 

So fucking tired of it. Tired of the way that I can’t keep even the tiniest piece of space for my own use without it being pirated somehow by one of them…tired of how I have to stay shut up in my room because the useless birds are driving me insane, or if they were magically being quiet, the one roommate would be constantly in my doorway trying to show me something on youtube or socknet or Instagram –

“I’m fucking busy, dumbass!!! Can’t you see the document open on my screen and don’t you notice my full attention focused on it???”

Jesus, it’s like pulling teeth to get a mother fucker to just leave me the fuck alone for a chunk of time….always being bothered by the stupidity of their ways, even when I make a point to remove myself from it.

“Dude…I have REAL problems, REAL troubles and strife…you’ll forgive me if I don’t sympathize with your meager and pathetic excuses for reasons to be upset…come back and talk to me when you’re a parent, or when you lose your kid, or when your mother is hospitalized for being insane again, or when your father gets beaten almost to death downtown over your hooker, drug-addicted daughter, etc. Don’t cry to a beggar about having no money or whatever, you seem so miserably shallow when you talk to me about trivial horse shit like you do, when I have REAL struggles to suffer through…damn.”

Why do you slam the front door (that shares a wall with my bedroom, right where the head of my bed is) when you leave for work every morning at 6:30? It’s not as if you aren’t aware that I am sleeping there. Why do you fail to lock the front door upon leaving, while I should theoretically still be asleep? Why do you treat the front porch as a trash receptacle for your garbage from your car? Why do you ever bother with an ashtray at all when 99% of your butts end up on the fucking ground?

 

 

Cruel and Hard Truths.

Life is cruel in this way; I know…we each play the worst of mind games with ourselves throughout its course of time with us; we each self-fulfill handfuls of silent prophesies made; we each destroy what we love and strive hard to perfect. We each suffer the toxic illness known as The Self; and, we each inevitably become something that we never wanted to be. We each take it all for granted, every last bit of it…and we each remain blind to the ways in which The Self evolves the victim into the victimizer in order to survive another year here.
We pretend that the ways we “grow” to become better with age aren’t full-blown warped to the core: better hunters, gatherers, collectors, owners, and so on… we pretend that Life and its tragedies do not mar us; that these things don’t mold us into creatures much like everyone else – rendering indifference and ambiguity in the most raw manifestations…we pretend that we know…anything about anything at all…but, we are each just as vulnerable and naïve as the other.
I have spent my own years alive in doing these things; wasted all of the meaningful and important formidable times of my youth in believing.
I carried it around with me like a sales kiosk in a mall: always there and open to sell – but never paid much attention to by anyone who matters. I kept telling myself things that were totally fabricated just to drag myself through to the other side of another New Year’s celebration or birthday party; basically been lying to myself about very important elements in Life for as long as I have been an adult; because if I hadn’t, I would have seen the folly of my own existence with clarity early on and likely just pulled the plug. Had I been enlightened throughout the years of my youth as I have become since that time, I truly might have beat my little brother in the race to commit suicide. It is because of the knowledge I have collected as an adult, as a mom, and as a grown up human being, that I can fully comprehend (and thoroughly forgive) my brother for his decision to end his own life so young and tragically.
JJ had never been able to feed himself such lies about his own existence and what it all lead up to for him; he had never been able to convince himself that our Mom actually did love him, or that his very being was not unwanted or regrettable, in reality – not any more than any of the rest of us, at least. He somehow managed to make it all the way to age 19 without any self-comforting delusions before finally allowing the ton of bricks to land on him (a feat that often leaves me dumbfounded, in its own right); he accepted his own reality as it had seemed to have come to him during infancy and just kept on until he had enough and ceased to move on.
These days, given all that’s happened with my own irreparably damaged child, it’s so much easier for me to understand where he was coming from and how he had reached that point; experience has helped me to recognize things as they are/were when it comes to the choice he made to kill himself like he did – he always used to ask me things at night when we were falling asleep like,
“Do you think that when Mama does come back, she will still remember me?”
or
“What did I do to make Mama go?”
As the youngest and the last to be born to our often violent, highly unstable and ever-intoxicated mother, of course he took her absence very personally from the moment he became aware of it. I, on the other hand, did not seem to be affected so much by it back in those days; at least, not in any apparent or obvious way. I used to feel puzzled by his constant neediness for her, the incessant questioning and quizzing about her nature and/or appearance, and most memorably: this urgency that seemed to be hardwired into his heart and brain to reunite with her before he lost the chance. During our childhood, all JJ ever wanted for Christmas was our mom to come…he never stopped crying for her at night when he had nightmares or when he was injured at play; he never stopped dreaming like little Orphan Annie about the sun coming up tomorrow and finally shining onto his face. He also never stopped being disappointed and heartbroken; his entire world must have felt like it was on hold all the time; his little face would just light right up when he thought he saw her, or heard her voice – even if he heard someone else say er name out loud…he just wanted her so badly.
“Mama’s not gone, J…she’s just away ‘til she gets better.”
I used to say this to him often, as it had repeatedly been said to me by my older brothers or dad; I never believed in my heart that she would be coming back, though – not sure why – but, I never held on to that notion at all.
Last night I was reading through some old family stuff and something seemed to drop into my heart like a fucking lead ball from out of nowhere:
Although I might not have been at all aware of it (or affected by it in the same ways as it affected JJ), these abandonment issues I harbor did not show up in my adult life; they have been there always – and have been warped and shaped over time and by my own experiences with my mom, my late dad, and late little brother. I thought last night for some reason about my mother passing away, and how that would leave me feeling, all things considered. I can say that the emotional tidal wave that followed such thoughts was quite surprising and unexpected for me, as I failed to form the attachments to her that are necessary to feel such emotional lows…or, so I thought. Then, the thought struck me of how it would be between my step-dad and me if my mom were to pass away before him; and, I was truly terrified beyond words by the possibility of that tie being severed completely through her death.
In short, it occurred to me last night just how much I have allowed myself to bond to my recovering and medicated mother in the years I’ve been trying, despite my own inability to perceive such things as they present themselves from one day to the next. I’ve always held so much resentment and blame and anger towards her as a result of JJ’s suicide that I guess I didn’t even notice those things as they began to fade and be replaced by forgiveness and understanding; Life is cruel that way…

Shame on Me and the Cursed Empathy.

I guess at this stage of the situation in which I blindly bound myself about a year and a half ago now, the question that burns the biggest hole in my soul would be this:

Why in the Hell would anyone INTENTIONALLY remain to annoy and disrespect; in a living situation that has become obviously regrettable and problematic with the very same person who originally allowed that person in to a home to begin with?

I mean, for me in my own personal experiences with things like this, I tend to lean towards the old saying that goes,

“Nobody likes to be somewhere when they are not wanted.”

Apparently, not everyone is made uncomfortable by being an imposition and a nuisance to the life of someone who’s only mistake had been trying to help that person in the past; someone who has been more than patient during the long period of time that a former welcoming gesture has been overstayed and taken wildly advantage of; someone who just wants her own life and routine back, finally. Apparently, some people have no issue whatsoever with becoming a thoroughly hated and resented element from one day to the next, simply based on the fact that they are here – and unwanted. For a long while, I had certainty of this person’s oblivion, in regard to my displeasure with his continued residence, but after finally blowing up and releasing the seething wrath he has sown within my being over time, there is no longer any excuse for his refusal to just leave already. Since my overdue explosion, I know with certainty that he is aware of my readiness for him to move out and move on in his own life – anywhere besides my house. I know that he is aware of how I feel about and perceive him also – because I told him those things too during my blow-up. I have become paranoid of him because he is not trustworthy, and has proven such time and again – which makes me question everything about him and anything he says or does. That is no way to live in the same space with someone else; and I am getting to the point where I might have to talk to Dice (my other roommate and the homeowner where I live) about it, whether I like it or don’t. I have been avoiding involving him for obvious reasons; but he is the one who can make it happen without any drama…kinda paradoxal, isn’t it all? Fuck me and the cursed empathy…it gets me every fucking time in the end to be a “human being” to another carbon-based life form.

Cyclical.

Throughout so much of the apparent bullshit that goes on with each new sunrise of my cursed life, I’d like to share the fact that there are NOTHING but vastly reaching tentacles of even more bullshit that belong to the variants attached to that same fucking existence.
For even when things are on the “upswing” for me (which never consists of anything more than a few not-so-bad things happening), my heart is ever struggling to simply remain above the ring of that proverbial drain; I am not throwing a pity party – anyone who really knows me at all will have no choice but to agree with my longtime proclamation of purely bad karma…it IS NOT “perception” or a matter of any “law of attraction”; it is TRUTH.
1) When my health gets to a point in which I have any room to move freely, my car breaks down with some fucking random, yet very expensive issue, and I get stuck until I become ill again;
2) When I become ill – nothing else matters besides getting better and it is always a fight that exhausts me to the point of near-submission;
3) By the time I “feel better”, I am so tired of fighting to feel better that I am at my own wit’s end with everything;
4) When I finally get my car repaired (a solution that attaches itself directly to MONEY), I run out of money and am again stuck until I get more income;
5) When I am sickly, it becomes all-too-often impossible to work for income;
6) When I get some income, it is already spent because I have been stagnant at home and have had to borrow from someone;
7) When I finally get back to feeling like I can possibly conquer even the simplest of steps in this horribly vicious cycle – my car breaks down again.

Granted, I am lucky to have people who help me, and my step dad loaned me his “spare” car; my own car is very close to being “repaired” once more (with the exception of brakes, which I was set out to pick up this morning in order for my nephew to change them today) – and of course there is no way in Hell that the Gods would allow things to go so smoothly for me, in my own fucking hell-hole life…my step dad’s spare won’t start this morning.

“Don’t freak out, I’ll pick you up and take you to the auto store to get your brakes…”

And nobody gets it…I don’t want a fucking ride to the fucking auto store to get the fucking brakes that I don’t even have the finances to buy right now!!! I don’t want anything from anyone who finds it funny when I can’t start the loaner car I’m forced to borrow because my own bread and butter has failed me once again!!! I am sick and fucking tired of the heavy weight I am dragging around by my ankle over the dread and anxiety of vehicular failure – and I cannot deal with AGAIN it today (with the car that I’m using while I have no car)!!!
I just want a single, fucking break!!! It never comes….NEVER.
The cycle of my existence is what is going to kill me eventually, not anything or anyone else. It will be the long-lived and suffered anxiousness and worry and dread that will finally stop my blackened heart. And to be honest, I can’t wait.