Mescalene.

Try I do, to do the right thing,
Suck it up and bite the bean,
Keep it honest, keep it clean,
Oil the gears in this here machine;
Profound lessons learned on mescalene,
While at school all they see are mass shootings,
A universe stealthily winding up to spring,
As we build bombs and don’t suspect a thing;
Life must take pleasure in shaping misery,
While mutated versions of my fellow human being,
Clueless and empty like a fuzzy TV screen,
Get go on thinking they got anything on me.

HATE.

“You get justice in the next world; in this one you have the law.”
~ William Gaddis

I’m not angry at her; it’s hardly her fault at all – what she has become. I am angry at myself, at her monster of a sperm donor, and at the failed juvenile courts system of the United States of America. I am angry at the useless social workers who weren’t paying any attention to what I told them when I reached out for help with her so long ago; I am angry at the many handfuls of children’s services that miserably disappointed her needs back then; I am angry at the laughable façade called the JUSTICE that remains only through legend and lore.
I am angry at the judge who has sat back for over six years now and watched with a wretched smile as my only child has been spiritually battered to death under her “care”; I am angry at the court-appointed legal representative that gets paid to protect my daughter’s rights as a clueless child in the midst of a heinously constructed legal process; I am angry that my community doesn’t give a shit about my daughter’s demise; I am angry at the various grown men (at least one of them, an employee of above mentioned failed court system) who saw it fitting to have sex with my underage child, beginning when she was only eleven years old.
I am angry at the case worker who claims to love my daughter and truly care for her…she is undoubtedly the BIGGEST piece of shit breathing air at present – the one who could and should have stopped many things many times, but didn’t. I HATE HER. And, I hate nobody else in the Universe.

What If…?

punisher‘What if…?’
And, as the words
shoot from my mind
through my lips…
there’s a sign,
shooting from
somewhere
far behind.
‘What if…?’
And, I cannot know
the aftertaste of
a poison on my lips…
a crash above,
low the high
circling
what was.
‘What if…?’
And, as the chance
sucks itself down the drain
out of my fingertips…
there’s a pang,
deep inside
everywhere
all over again.
‘What if…?’
And, as the present
becomes the past, here and gone
time all spent…
hard and long,
lungs howled
everything
emptied of my song.

DUH, Bambi…

How bad of a thing is it that the most therapeutic thing I can think of whenever I am in the company of my “therapist” is head-butting him until he’s totally unconscious?…like, unconscious for a long time?
I mean, I guess I know by now that he’s NOT necessarily holding a recording device behind his back with every greeting (my own paranoia), or staging a bust with the local psychiatric ward upon my arrival to his office (my own paranoia), or that he is going to “dump me” out of nowhere (my own abandonment issues), or that he is going to force me to sign a contract that holds me liable to see him every other day (my own commitment issues), or that his tiny, too-high-off-the-ground office is eventually gonna swallow me whole (my own agoraphobia and anxiety in enclosed spaces, especially with men). Lastly, I know by now that he poses no physical threat to me whatsoever, but it’s been eight years off and on with him already.
None of these things seem to be able to keep me from wanting to take a chunk out his face with my teeth upon him pointing something that should’ve been plainly obvious to me, in retrospect…I hate when he does that!
Any of my readers know about my longstanding Mommy issues, well – you know as much about them as I do, I should say…my Mom has been acting passive-aggressive again lately to me, and it hurts me when she does that, even still, somehow. Despite all I’ve learned and admitted and accepted – she still has the keen ability to just trample my heart in a very unique manner.
This morning, “Dr. Cluckenquack” said to me in a disgusted tone, “Why do you even allow her close enough to you to hurt you this way?”, as if he were asking me why I hadn’t worn rain boots to his office today (in the rain). I wanted to chop him in his throat right then and there for stating the apparent reality of the circumstance so plainly like that, but didn’t even respond in a snotty way when I stated: “She is my mother, she gave birth to me…she’s my Mom…”
I was spacing out already from the session’s emotionally painful content, so I don’t know why I was so passive in the moment but maybe that’s why…because when I got to work afterwards, I was fuming and super pissed for at least a good hour…wtf??? Therapy???

Qualcuno! dovrebbe sparare il batterista!

 Image

Not a pity party here tonight…just “blogging” in my “blog” like a good lil’ blogger…

I am surviving; yeah…I am waking up in the morning every day like a Survivor, however – with a permanently embedded bitterness pasted to the roof of my Survivor Mouth; rolling my eyes before even rolling out of my bed completely; aimless; hateful and resentful; wishing for a car to strike me dead in the road with every crossing I make. I can’t say that I’m suicidal; I don’t lie around thinking about ways in which to end my horrid, miserable mockery of a “life”, nor do I idealize the notion of offing myself – as inviting as that idea may be oftentimes when it passes fleetingly through my overstimulated mind at random. Yes, I said “at random”, and I did not misuse the word; thoughts of death or dying or being dead flow freely around my every moment of life, oddly enough. Even after surviving a very near-fatal injury and recovering for so many years afterward, even after spending so long of a time wondering if I could eventually be someone who appears “normal” again on the outside – and then finally achieving that “normalcy” in appearance; even after almost having the very life ripped out of my grasp forever before I was ready to die (I was only 21)…still, I remain infatuated with the alternative of life and living somehow.

I can say this: that I never would have fought to recover like I did – had I known what the future held. That thought bothers me often, and is something that I bring up regularly in therapy with my shrink because it weighs heavily on my heart to be aware of this fact. I talk long shit about my Cut-Throat instinct, and how it defines who I am; but sometimes I wonder if I don’t secretly despise the Survivor in me for pulling through to the other side, for fighting so hard for so long when it was so trying in every way, for believing so fucking much in Modern Medicine, “miracles” and The Underdog Theory…do I actually resent myself for getting through ….TO THE HELL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF HELL. I think so. No matter what anyone else says about shit and the way shit went down, I continue to look at my recovery from severe and traumatic injury as the period in my life that I screwed Boo over the worst. This was when Boo was abandoned in her mind; it was during this time that Boo needed me more than ever – a time when I was within arm’s reach to her but denied her access, as far as she was concerned; I was selfish and wrong to have expected a toddler to comprehend my own instability – that’s not a kid’s job. Sometimes I wonder if Boo would have been better off had she been taken into the foster system way back then, when she was still young enough to be suggestible to ideas such as mental health and coping skills, etc. …I can’t help but to blame myself for what Boo has become, it’s natural I know that.

I also know it’s not always reasonable for me to blame myself for how things have gone with her; not all of them, at least. The guilt and the self-disgust over this period of my history eats me alive though, with every unfolding crease in the pages. Cause and effect is a basic concept; and one that has always been near and dear to my world in an instantly gratifying way; as I have always been keen on the irony of this particular notion. I have been struck by the leathery, aged hand of Karma into the state that you know today: my entire life being a comic strip tableau of karmic instances occurring consecutively in a long string of “Hate to say I told you so’s”. Anyway, more recently I am becoming aware that I am middle-aged, rebelliously single, mentally unstable, and vertically challenged woman (who looks like a little boy because her hair won’t grow into some of the many varying grafts in her scalp) with a total lack of motivation or purpose or direction. This will hopefully be a temporary self-inventory; God Damn I hope it is temporary because I’m getting tired of resenting myself for being alive so often.