No Longer MY Loss.

So this is how it ends for you…after all you have managed to survive against all odds; you are going to be your own demise in the end. You have missed today’s surgery, because you disappeared into the night last weekend with the promise of returning on time to take care of your own physical needs…once again, you have highlighted for the world: your complete and total lack of any self-respect or desire to take control of your issues. I can’t say that I was honestly expecting you to show up for something that only a responsible individual would have the nerve to do; I recognize that despite your fearlessness, you have a very low-functioning ability to actually handle yourself in the Real World. Perhaps, that is why I had already thought ahead and cancelled your time in the O.R. today; because I knew deep down that you not only lack the care or concern for your own health – but for anyone else’s also; and so I made sure that whomever was in line got to go in your place this morning for their’ surgery. I wonder if you ever consider anything outside of yourself in any context at all…like, do you think about what you are psychologically doing to your grandparents? Or me? Or anyone who has had the humanity to give you another PASS since the most recent Return from the Dead? How many times might your peanut sized brain expect to be forgiven and allowed to return for more destruction to be left in your undoubtedly impending wake? You obviously harbor a completely unreasonable idea of who you are, nor have you a fairly accurate perception of anyone who has been fixed in your life, thus far; while you have been blessed with a family that has been patient and understanding to the best of its ability, you have done nothing but shame yourself and everyone attached to you.
They say that psychopaths have no shame or fear built into the mechanisms that make most people “human”; they say that there is a total lack in the ability to feel for others, or for the part – themselves even. I can say with certainty at this point that you fit that psychopathic profile to a T, as did your father. Any creature with even half of a brain cell would have learned some very lasting Life Lessons after surviving what you have come through…yet, here you are doing the same old shit and another year older, somehow. I have accepted the loss of you, Boo…I know that I am no longer anyone’s Mom, and to be honest there is something disturbingly refreshing about such a notion for me these days; but you still exist (for now, at least)…and I can’t grasp the concept of your choices in regard to HOW you choose to make your existence be like. I cannot feel sorry for you anymore…not after so many times finding you with your entire hand in the fire before it’s anywhere near healed from the last time(s). To pity you only means that you are the victim…and that is NOT always the case, is it? You have been foolish in every element of your life to the point of disbelief; you have essentially shit away any access to the Trust Fund that I fought tooth and nail to ensure through a Civil Lawsuit – money that would easily get you set up in a “normal” scenario, if you had the sense or maturity to just fall in line long enough to get your ducks in a row…but that’s too much for you, even.
I don’t feel sorry that you live on the street and sell your ass to get by, not when I know that it IS NOT NECESSARY AT ALL and you CHOOSE that lifestyle in the face of normalcy and/or self-sufficiency. I don’t wish for you to return like I used to anymore either…because the bonds have been broken already and I now harbor mostly a complete lack of understanding or tolerance for your behaviors and actions. I will not allow my parents to die in brokenness and sadness, missing money and heirlooms that you stole without a second thought as to THEIR existences. What kind of person steals from their grandparents, anyway… not to mention, brings friends home to steal from their grandparents, also? I think we both KNOW what kind of person does that kind of dirt…and I think we both know that I am NOT that person, and never could be. Can you say the same? I didn’t think so…

None of it is MY loss anymore, you know? You’re an adult now, remember? Mrs. Big Badass whose wanted to be grown for so long now, and for what? Ain’t nothing changed, you still do the same immature and despicable stuff that you did as juvenile delinquent, don’t you? How’s that adult thing looking now, kid?

“Be fucked”.

“Be Fucked.”    – Calamity Jane


I received a package containing all of my daughter’s school papers, notebooks and any other miscellaneous documents that she collected over the years of her incarcerated teenaged life. I have had possession of the box for almost a month now and only opened it the other day because my mother was seeking out a particular photo that she assured me was inside.

mock my painI have avoided opening this box and exposing myself to the mess of utter bullshit that it encloses, as I know that there is very little about her persona that is her own; the lies that she cultivates and maintains regarding her real life events and the real family associated with them. It’s been a few years now that I’ve had to digest the fact that my only child is a compulsive liar who seems incapable of telling even simple truths in the most casual of contexts.

I can imagine what it must feel like for the mother of a serial killer or a fucking terrorist who has been identified and detained before the world to see: the inconsolable shame and regret, bewilderment and lack of any ability to relate to the actions of one’s own offspring – much less: be able to account for any of those actions as the mother of the creature in question…I don’t need to imagine what it feels like to go through the later part of one’s life in absolute shock and faltering denial pertaining to the finally produced grown-up version of what was once her child; the child she never understood or related to, the child that boggled her mind and trampled her heart in the long run.

be fuckedBut yeah, my good ol’ mom insisted on sending me to swim with the jellyfish yesterday, and asked me to look for the photo in the box…and…

Was I surprised by the horse-shit chronicles that I found inside?

Hell no.

Does it hurt my very core to its hollows upon being reminded how very fucked up my kid is as a human creature, to be able to put such miserable dishonesty in writing?

Hell yes it does, every time…to read such disillusion in her own words always stings and burns like it was the first time reading it.

Yes, the box is chock-full of lies and delusions in written form; horribly non-believable versions of her life story that paint not only me – but my parents as well – as warped, mutilated and fabricated versions of ourselves to fit the varying purposes such documents were meant to serve. These constructs of penned deceit written by the hand of my only child are not something I take lightly – on any level; as they have come to serve as written proof in my mind that my child has been lost to me and my family for a long, long time already. And, somehow – as crazy and unhealthy as this may come across to my readers, to be reminded of exactly the depths of character incessantly displayed by her at the cost of her own family – the only people who have ever given two real fucks about her – is a comfort to me now; as I have no idea whether she is dead or alive, anyway.

Angel of Shame.

Sunny outside and seventy degrees…
Mother Earth’s butterfly kisses fluttering…
I am barricaded deep within bloody memories…
can’t I just be normal and somehow just feel happy? …
Another season’s campouts come and go again…
another click added between Life and the Wasteland…
the older I get, the less I relate to my once closest friends…
it’s just me and CPTSD – not much else worth any mention…
no matter the efforts always made in true vain…
I’ve carved years out of Life with just trying to stay sane…
after so many times of being burdened by false blame…
and being kicked in the face by the Angel of Shame…
it comes to a place where I’ve got nothing to give…
where each day is painful through grace that I live…
and each moment is nearly impossible to perceive…
where the only thing left is hope in which to believe.

Public Display of Unaffection.

He doesn’t want me to climb a high mountain,
to declare what is what from up there, before all the land –
he’d rather if I weren’t publicly affectionate towards him,
his body stiffens anxiously whenever I reach out to hold his hand;
sometimes, the tone in which his voice carries to me,
snaps my bottom lip like he spat the crack of a smart whip –
other times, his overwhelming affections remind me, eerily,
of a man too drunk to walk without having taken a single sip;
He becomes uncomfortably uncomfortable,
when I lean closely into either one of his ears –
it’s as if he expects my whispers to transform into Vipers,
spitting venom that he would sooner die than to hear;
I know it is only a matter of time before he’s no longer mine,
and this fact only makes me make him even less interested –
he says that I don’t communicate my needs and desires to him,
but when I do express myself, he says he wishes I never did;
it seems to be a losing battle with him, when,
he pulls and I push and he lets go and I eat pavement –
it’s a no go zone – despite the fact that it’s my home,
like shoveling the snow as a blizzard lays new layers again;
he can’t possibly have been feeling what I feel,
to keep me veiled by a curtain that separates a room –
my declaration from the mountain might be to him instead,
if he doesn’t help me find a way to climb up there, and soon.

My “Misery” Doesn’t Love Anything.

A Gauge of My Levels of Combustion at Present.

Some Insight to My Levels of Near-Combustion at Present.

Misery Loves Company, No?

I sent the Orphan to the beach alone twice, no three times in a row last week…he’s not deserving of my current state of shittiness…so I have spared him out of love and respect.

Why….?”, He wondered the last time I mumbled “Rain-check” to him with my back turned – not wanting to make eye contact at that very moment for my own WHACKED-OUT ANXIETY/PTSD-esque reasons…(he never pushes); he eventually left for the blue without me again, with a locker-room throwback slug in my arm on his way out the front door; he makes me grin…

I sent him a text message about an hour later that read:

“Idk how else to express myself other than to tell you that I’m trying to spare you, Killer…I feel like I’m gonna explode…”

A statement which is very accurate in description; a lifetime spent in the open spaces – arms reaching upwards towards the Gods in the thunderstorm – demanding that the other shoe be dropped on my fucking head already…’cause I have been on edge, waiting with nervous anticipation for it since I can recall anything about my own sense of anxiety,

I am ashamed of my social and emotional shortcomings when it comes to meaningful relationships with the male persuasion;

I am afraid of most males with whom I share any context of a confined physical space with, reflexively – no matter how hard I fight the fear that swallows me;

Men wonder why I am such a “stuck up bitch” or if I am “on mute” or if  I “feel superior somehow” to them, as a result of my misunderstood, standoffish reaction to their fucking pheromones in my environment…

I wonder why I am so broken; and why I’ve been so far: unable to just STOP the anxiousness,fear,paranoia and passive-aggressive rage that has been part of the Survivor Me – The miserable parts of being a Survivor…the mind-fuck, night terror shit you can’t wish on your very worst enemy.

So..does my own Misery Love Company, after all…? I think not.

 

Misery is a Contagious Disease That I Don’t Wish To Spread.