let’s review, shall we? How shall I respond to such a painfully dense query? …
Maybe by throwing myself beneath oncoming freeway traffic…
Or peeling the fucking skin from my face with a smile…
Would spontaneous combustion count as a reply to your stupid-ass question?
‘Am I okay?’…
fuck no, I’m not okay…come here and I’ll show you.
I’ve NEVER been okay, and, as my blood-mother – has it ever occurred to you that you should know these things better than anyone? It hurts me so deeply that you take such little interest in knowing me – never have much cared about WHO I AM.
The irony here Mom, is that I am everything I am because of you, essentially, despite your ongoing carelessness and cruelty throughout my entire life. You will never understand me because you don’t care to; you will never hear me because you don’t listen to my words, and never could be still long enough to…do you know how much that hurts me? Even now after all this time I’ve had to accept who you are, it still just doesn’t sit well with me to know that your only daughter is wasted on you, and always was. You’re ignorance has always wounded me deeply, Mom.
Please keep trying, I will too.
Papa always told me that if you are crossing a bridge and become tired, you have only two options:
1) To sit down in the middle of the crossing and die;
2) To go back or forward until you get to one side or the other…
but you don’t just sit down and die, you keep going.
In my “pack” family growing up, my Dad, my Papa, any immediate uncles and aunts, as well as “The Originals” (my older set of brothers) had a ditty that they used to chant whenever anything involved myself, my younger brother, or my brother who precedes me by 19 months – in combination with our lovely mother – “The Shawnee Mommy” – performed to the tune of the Hokie-Pokie. I am sure you can imagine the verses they came up with for each body part when it came to her (they each disliked her intensely). They would regularly lineup like the fucking Temptations or something and sing shit like:
“You got a Shawnne Mommy,
and she’s comin’ to the house!..
That’s what it’s all about – stomp stomp”
On my way home this evening, I dropped by my parents’ house unexpectedly (when I refer to my “parents” in the current context, I am always referring to my mother and step-dad, unless otherwise stated for some whack-ass reason that I cannot conjure up). I needed to speak to my step-dad about some stuff that my mother can not be bothered with, as she continues to grieve the loss of my grandmother very, very deeply and perpetually. For the loss she is struggling so mightily to cope with, I am genuinely saddened for my mother; I know that she and my grandmother were always very close, somehow – despite my mother’s lifelong shortcomings as an unstable individual against a solidly founded Tribe. For whatever reasons though, my mother (Willow) maintained a loyalty and closeness to her Mom, my grandma Joey (NOTof Tannuea ‘s clan – she’s my mother’s paternal grandmother), that stands in stark contrast to ANY and EVERY other relationship throughout her entire time alive. I realize she is mourning and grieving and feeling always without. And like I said, for that, I feel sorry for her, indeed.
Now, before I lose a handful of followers and possibly even a few of my friends by describing the events that followed my surprise appearance at her home earlier today, I could launch into a seminar-style presentation in my own defense regarding the many, many, many forces that drive my love/hate relationship with Willow i.e the time that she chucked a plastic shopping bag of canned peaches at my face while I sat unable to defend myself in my hospital bed of webbed tubing (she did this because Security had asked her to leave due to her shockingly venomous behavior towards a newly relocated patient moved to the trauma/burn unit from ICU) – – – I could emphasize the fact that she actually got sent away to a “Pre-Reagan State Hospital” as an alternative sentence to PRISON for smothering me with my own pillow when I was still an infant in a crib because she
“was tired and I was crying non-stop, and [she] couldn’t find David…”(my father)
I could go into detail about any of my many memories of her Leño’d out, drunken, psychopathic boyfriends chasing her to my Dad’s house – her children’s house – out of diabolically jealous entrapment on her part (Willow is an Oscar-Winning Drama Queen), and wound up creating situations in which any one of my older set of brothers (who were not born to her) or my Dad – interchangeably – were arrested and taken away from me because of her bullshit pot-stirring. I could go on and on about my issues with her, how she slept every one of boyfriends she could get her hands on throughout my late teens, including The Ripper, I am thoroughly convinced and always have been. But fuck it, I won’t bother with the bore of it all. I can sum my mother up pretty well with tonight’s triggering event upon her sending me down her hallway to find her husband at the back of the house, because she was too pre-occupied by doing nothing at the time.
As I was walking down the (admittedly unfamiliar) hallway of of my mother’s house, what did I see in a fucking frame on the wall to my left, hung proudly amongst the photos of my very bloodline, other than this lovely triggering memory hanging in my fucking face like a fucking freshly dead carcass had been framed in silver trim:
(The above photo is purposely lacking in image quality, but the point remains the same) THIS IS THE RIPPER AND I. Circa 1999
And so, yes…I blew the fuck up on her – – – once again…
I just can’t understand her thinking, no matter how many times I try, or in what ways, or with what empathy…she is just an unnecessarily antagonistic and cruel creature with no clue of her own influence over a child that she bore…way back when.