Big Differences.

Growing up, every year on my birthday, my Dad would make a point to become overwhelmed by sentiment, and then force his recollections upon me of the day that I was born. I typically spent the following few moments listening to him describe what life had been like prior to my birth (a dramatically dismal and rainy scene in which he, my Papa, and my older brothers spent their days feeling incomplete and longing for the missing piece to the puzzle of Life that only I could provide). My father never held back from parenthood, and he did everything with gusto when it came to his kids – his only daughter, especially – so the birthday strokes came on thick and lasted pretty much throughout the day until I went to bed.

Anyway, I think about this often (at least once a year); and can’t help but to compare these types of memories with those that surround me as the parent and Boo as the birthday girl (her 19TH birthday is tomorrow). It makes me dwell heavily in the land of self-inventory…and I can’t help but to wind up feeling guilty and shitty because I honestly don’t have such sweet sentiments in regard to my Life as a mother to Boo. I always used to eat myself that way because I would secretly feel quite different about Life before and after Boo (in comparison to those annual mountains of sugar that my Dad always fed me, at least).

Just been stuck in Plebian Mode all day over this stupid comparison, I thought I’d dump it out into the Universe and see if that helps it go away.

The “Whyer” (An Un-Secret Chronicle).

Toilet Seats and Vaseline.

 

In spite of the obvious answer to such wonderment, the young S was always genuinely shocked by the amount of time that she and her best friend spent in the dreary realm of “consequence” that one must visit upon being caught and deemed guilty of a thing; and her honest queries regarding this topic had J in regular meditation surrounding the (now, un-secret) adventures of she and her playmate.
S was a “why-er”; she was never satisfied with the answers that adults gave her on any subject, having been born deeply embedded with the distrust of the world’s top Conspiracy Theorists.
While daydreaming in after-school-detention (an almost daily trifle in their juvenile lives, Monday through Friday), S had the tendency to ponder she and J’s being there on the deepest of levels, following up the thinking spell by writing a four-page summary of her opinions on the scenario, crumpling the two sheets of paper into a hopelessly ink-smeared ball; and then, proceeding to chuck it at a professional baseball pitcher’s speed from across the room to J.
Once, upon being given an unsatisfactory answer (about the original scout of Mount Rainier) from an adult at a holiday party thrown by J’s somewhat uppity grandmother, S took a poll among the rest of the guests present, and had calculated and announced its results (which were, I should add, NOT in the favor of the original adult answer-giver, after all) before the party’s conclusion. S didn’t gloat, however.
It was times such as these that J wondered to herself in earnest:
How old will S and I be when we land ourselves in the slammer?
So it went, that through the childhood years of these two uniquely blended souls, and without fail, each and every time that the two of the youngsters found themselves in trouble, and subsequently paying the consequences or making amends for said trouble, J would find herself under a barrage of verbal bullets in the form of inquiries surrounding the miserable circumstances. It isn’t as if the S’ huge arsenal of ever-replenished appendages to the bottom line question of “why” bothered J; in fact, without the company of her best friend during her younger years of Life, J most certainly would have grown up to be much different in character and disposition, as S’ perpetually running interrogations undoubtedly molded J into the opinionated and exacting person she is, ever stimulated by the tickling in her young brain by S in this way.
It worked both ways, too; as S spent her time feeling an innate sense of alarm and impending danger at all times, as a direct result of the friendship shared between them. Hyper-vigilante S was always a little over-protective of dreamy J, and continues to be to this day; but during the days of their youth, the one always harbored a compelling notion of security towards the other. From the outside looking in on the girls’ connection, it certainly appeared a strange combination of traits that held the two girls so closely bound to one another, being as night and day different as they were.
For instance, S has the personality of a chucker, and resorted almost instantly to fist fighting (or worse) on the playground when she was faced with opposition of any kind (withstanding that of her beloved J); plotted hideously diabolical schemes, and launched the most elaborate of hoaxes and pranks against their natural childhood enemies when called to action. J, on the other hand, was much more apt to being soft and tended to shy away from confrontation, preferring to logically figure out the root cause of any differences that arose between her and others. There had been many times that after walking away from a situation that J was certain she had successfully hashed-out with a peer on the playground, only to be informed that the very same student had come by some horrible “accident” in the aftermath. A tell-tale sign of S’ inevitable involvement was the fact that during these particular instances, not a single “why?” was muttered to J in the whispered conversations that came in their wake.
The result of such variances in personality and behavior between the girls became the rough outline of the solid bond that can be observed today. Where many young children who foster un-becoming friendships during the years in Life when one is still uncertain of one’s own preferences, tend to grow out of such a role by high school, J and S honestly seemed to not notice the blaring contrast between them. The years passed by with only the pains and struggles of the Outside World touching the girls; and the cushion between the two of them, an element that allowed them to just “be” with each other, never softened or faded or burned out. If anything, the enchanted web woven throughout the days lived by them only served to strengthen and protect them from the Outside World and its never-ending stream of hardships.
In summary, the terrifyingly alert and disturbingly cool S that currently walks around scaring the Hell of people and totally lacking any verbal or mental filter, whatever, actually has a much more calm and nurturing side than most might suspect. J smiles to herself even now; to think of the handfuls of times that little S looked up at her so curiously and asked,

Why?”

About (the former) Me: A Prelude to the End.

About ME IN CAPTIVITY:

americano

I’m prefacing the final post in this section with this truthful and quite chopped description of myself as the Hostage to my ex-husband “The Ripper” AKA “Mr. Americano”; I am doing this as a means of prefacing the final event, in which I admittedly behaved in An antagonistic and depraved manner, resultant of the triggering event (also found in the final post of this section). I do not intend to try and justify any of my own actions or behaviors, nor downplay my own part in the chaotic lifestyle that led to my traumatic and violent attack; I simply want my readers to better understand my own state of mind and being during the events of my account.

I was a good wife; and, in all the days leading up to getting married to a Monster – I was a good girlfriend to him, hands down. I never strayed; I never acted like a drama queen or behaved jealously. I was submissive, by nature, when he got hold of me and reeled me tightly in on his line through the deceit of his “nice face”. I was happy with being “loved” by the man that I loved. And, boy did I love that Monster of a “man” for a chunk of time out of my life, prior to allowing myself to accept his irreparable and dangerous shortcomings as a human being. Even after handfuls of severe and bone-breaking beatings, I longed to understand him – to somehow heal him from his own horrid past. True story. I felt for him the same as I for everyone around me, for anyone who I love: TOTALLY AND UNDYINGLY. I would be lying if I claimed to hate this man, even now, when he is dead and gone and I should give “Good Riddance” and spit on his grave; I don’t. I can’t. I loved him once; I bore his child. Sacred things don’t dissipate, they just can’t.

My heart was as broken as my face when I actually began to swallow that pill – the reality of my situation and the man who held control over it all; it was a long and harrowing process for me to actually process the information on a conscious level, same as I believe it must be for any Domestic Hostage of a once adored and trusted, now lethally explosive husband. The proverbial Egg Shell description doesn’t even begin to describe the lifestyle of this embodiment of a “flash-frozen”, captive wife/girlfriend, etc…it took me over a year to actually see him for what he was: a Monster with no remorse or capacity for love or compassion; a Sadist and a vicious sexual dominant; the worst mistake that I ever made. The truly unspeakable things he did to me physically became paled in comparison to the ways that he violated and betrayed my heart until it seemed to have disappeared altogether.

I NEVER called the police. NOT ONE TIME.

I can’t explain myself on this matter besides to say: “See? I was afraid.”

Oddly enough, when the event happened and the police had come out because of a neighbor’s call – it made no difference anyway, he cut my throat in front of all of them…and ran away into the trees (just like that creepy fucker Elijah Woods portrays from Sin City).

And well, that was what I wanted to share in advance prior to posting the final piece of the section describing the traumatic and near-death end of my marriage to The Ripper, Boo’s father.