and other oxymorons.
big little descending ascents into the present past of my inexperienced experience.
or something. just think of something that doesn’t make sense and you can taste what my 5 or 7 different prescription medication day feels like.
a year after i was born steve martin released a record called, “a wild and crazy guy“, ( if i’m at all capable of remembering anything) and one of the most striking routines on it, in my opinion when i first heard it when i was about 24, was his imagination of what would become of children if we “talked wrong” to them. instead of asking to go to the bathroom they would say, “dogface the banana patch” or something. of course, you’ve got to be the wild and crazy guy himself to make this exactly as funny as it is but i’m not really thinking about it humorously at the moment. i’m talking wrong myself and i can’t seem to control it. my thoughts are clear enough, but my mouth talks wrong and things come out precisely backwards which is embarrassing and frustrating. the worst part is the concern it evokes in people who know me. anyway… them fuck, that other fine than i’m.
two years after i was born a woman named suzette elgin wrote a book called, “the gentle art of verbal self-defense.” i think that i read it for the first time at about 28. i was sleeping on an air mattress that my best friend had loaned to me in an empty room with a thin blanket not dissimilar to a jail blanket, though i didn’t know what jail blanket felt like at the time. i was in the house rented in my name and i wasn’t ruined or anything, but i had kicked my current husband and (long ago) then boyfriend out after the best friend explained to me what had happened to me in front of her. i lived alone that way for a while in a waking coma with what was left of my personal belongings kept in boxes or closets, making use of only what i needed.
after what was supposed to have been a really awesome night i had been thrown violently against my tile kitchen floor. apparently my skull had bounced like a ball of jello (trademark! for goodness sake don’t sue me, bill cosby) encased in mercury with two shocking shock wave thuds. i had fallen asleep on the couch with my long missed and very dear female friend and so the waking, being pulled from my nestled warm position was more than fuzzy and remarkably less warm than what i could totally recall. i’d really been feeling good about that night. peaches was playing emo’s and we had tickets forever. i lost a very important necklace that night and had the good fortune of finding that it had fallen behind my neck in the driver’s seat of my own car and had hidden from all of the eyes, like so many blackjacks, in the night of downtown austin, texas where it might have been mistaken for something of more value than glass and steel. my best friend was home from miles of school and i did feel more lucky than usual and in a few dim ways i was. i learned later that when i crawled up off of the floor with her help that i picked up a 5th of the “turkey” and threw it across the room as i was being dragged to safety and hit my attacker, my now husband, square in the back of the head shattering the bottle in the rear stage right of what had been our living room. now… for a blackout drunk, if that isn’t luck then it’s got to be god and since there isn’t a god the only other possibility is that i really am one hell of a shot, blind drunk or not.
the next day with a lot of encouragement i uninvited him from our lease and bought a new chain lock that actually worked. a couple weeks into my new life i would read first about verbal self defense. so ironic that i’ve never been able to admit to myself that i’ve really been physically battered. i’ve always found an excuse that either blames me for the physical confrontation or shields my ego from considering that i could be a victim. i’m either too stupid or too smart to be afraid of him.
sooooo… medically, i’m in such a mess. accepting, admitting, coming to terms with or even realizing that you really are in the middle of a health crisis that is chronic is hard for my type. my genetic makeup protects me from feeling helpless as an adult in order to negate my own childhood inferiority that goes along with many a girls life.
now i am applying for disability and the dynamic is changing around here again. he hated my period of post -op helplessness. i actually did need his help to help my own child. turns out you need both hands to take care of a toddler even if it’s your secondary hand that’s in the shitter. oh my, how worse things have become. i am unable to do almost any housework that requires repeated bending, heavy lifting most meal preparation. if the milk is on the bottom of the fridge i just skip it. water, likewise. food is impossible to make. i feel dead and my punishment is to live in a hell that is exactly like my real life now. always sicker and no improvement. no diagnostics. no reason to get up anymore.
see you soon sherry!