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Archive for the ‘fear’ Category

not lady-like

sure, i wasn’t that. i grew up in the texas equivalent to a jungle and worse, the home inside was also grave with dangers. the biting roaches, the scorpions, the poor widowed wolf spiders made to carry their children on their backs until an age, the snakes and my mother
so, i rode bikes away, go carts, small boats and my bare feet. i went to a small green house, more often than not. just across the pond. within the hearing distance of my own home and in plain sight of it. while we played out of doors there, i felt a family within and i loved them all so much- they won’t ever know that now. but, i hope that i was a polite guest from 1 to close to 9 years of age when our city began to boom and my other folks, poor folks in the green house were forced to move back to their own country and pray to nuzzle the bosom left there when their dreams or maybe even their wishes for a city life became a joke.
it was almost as if they left before the doom boom with fateful grace. the house sits rented, by it’s only following inhabitant.. a coach for the middle school who has been there long as or longer than my other family.

my other family ate poorly. but, the things they ate are my comfort foods. with food come the smells of food and with smell the memories of man burn back into him.

recently, i went into the garage of a friend of mother’s and at once, it was my grandmother’s garage, once her husband’s before i was born. it smelled of a certain metallic and chemical way worn thin by thousands of times of opened doors, parking, leather seats too hot to sit upon and exhaust from leaded gasoline. out the next door not to the house, but beyond, the laundry room. some specific detergent. no dryer. when my dearest grandmother died we hung the pink carnations from her bouquets in there until they were as dry and dead as she was. i cannot recall when i rid myself of the last flower. it was long ago. so, the next door out into the yard. a clothes line and then trees, tortoises, horned toads and black cicadas. the horned toads, not toads at all would expel a forceful spurt of blood from their own eyes in the face of their captor.. me. but the more deft creatures just hid and quickly to any sound of the laundry door. some snakes, some rabbits. all hunted among each other, hid well from me, never knowing how much i cared for them or that i only meant to keep them for a night.

i had a horrible discovery once. i had been led to believe that a cicada could be leashed and flown such as a kite. i had only red yarn and i carefully fashioned a harness between the head and thorax of the pilot. at first flight, his wings lashed so fervently for freedom that the head and body separated. the head fell as the poor insect flew. i knew then that i was a killer. i was not to be consoled. i hated what i had done so much. but, young children charge back at defeat and sorrow. at least i always did.

then it came to me, as it would to most children, that i could still fly a cicada. i had to adjust the harness. the females would do better than the males for their large sound producing organs at their stomach would not be in the way. to tear another apart would have made me ill. but, i was curious… to the peril of many of these great insects. the perfect harness was cumbersome in the end. it had to be surrounding the cicada’s legs and abdomen leaving them little hope of landing out of bounds, but also underneath the delicate wings.

it worked! i loved them and my ingenuity! each pilot flew only one flight before freedom. then another day came where i fastened the yarn wrong. it was easy to make a mistake wearing the fingers of a child who could still not embroider. the pilot made haste to join the company of freedom. when she did, her abdomen wrenched from her thorax and her wings and head left their ruins far behind because i let go of the yarn at once. i never took another pilot. i was in mourning for being a child and stupid and even cruel. i had never meant to be cruel. i let the cicadas alone and street by street, the neighbors burned their trees or hacked them to shrubs with white painted wounds to discourage the next loosing of thousands of warriors. i had endured combat, it seemed and i had no stomach for saddling cicadas again. the poisons and burnings finished more than i had begun.

i was still small then, but i could see clearly at my grandmother’s (mother’s mother) that i was in a different country of texas. i liked it well but for the heat that the panhandle is famous for.  mirage, gourds and oil. so much oil. i’m lucky i didn’t truly live there. central texas was much more green and alive and it’s fauna ever more a challenge and reward to capture. with family history now within a grasp not meant for children’s minds i understand clearly how we drove east, never to return for long.

while my mother tolerated wildlife well, later allowing us to nurse fallen squirrels back to health by bottle, letting me keep a small opossum that i’d gathered from ten others in oven mits, and tolerating a ferret later. it wasn’t lady like. it was wild and my son-less father loved it all.

i hated dresses and make-up and falsity so i was what i willed. a tom of long hair and short trust. while i never became used to the dreaded con(dis)junction, “ain’t”, i might have without the constant and profuse refusal of such a child as that i was becoming.. south or not, we lived in a city and if i had any hope, i was always reminded, it would be to marry well.

how i lost the game for them is another story. the smells of memory preserve the memories themselves now. one smell. quite of import to my perceived failure is that of the cheapest scotch. i chose love every single time, to my parent’s tears. that is why they let me mire, ill and in poverty. it is my punishment for not being “lady-like”. i eat it, willingly.

i learned how to mix drinks at an early age. never thinking of sipping that sick, i brought it out, time and time again, like a dutiful tom. i can certainly say that they did not affront me with ideals of being lady like as i served them into dark, it was misfortune that they didn’t realize that i was playing a part that was un-childlike. that was ok then as it served their wants. it wasn’t entirely my fault. it was only later that i had to take my responsibility and as genetics had it… for a time i afforded great relief from my own scotch whiskey. but, never that cheap alcoholic shit- no, the aged and barreled, noble alcoholic swill. that was well before and not much of a story, really. an alcoholic is always an alcoholic, i didn’t learn for a while that the origin of the swill mattered very little.

oh, friends, this is a strange week. please listen. i’ve too much to say, but i’m trying to flay it apart before i tell you the bomb. it will not serve to say without the background i am trying to establish.

thank you all

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i’ve had them for six months now.  i’m under a rain cloud of morphine and new fashioned nerve tonics.  i tell myself it will be worth it when they find out what is wrong with me.  so far, electric shock nor radiation can give a face to my solid and constant pain disorder.  many nice palliative treatments have also failed.  i can’t even stand a massage most of the time.

imagine that someone was burning your nerve endings at irregular intervals for no apparent reason.  really, imagine it.  they’re talking about actually doing that to me as a treatment now.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhizotomy

i’m sure i’ve missed a few updates here as it has all unfolded and i’ve little strength to repeat it, but i did want to explain that the biggest reason for my lack of activity is that i cannot sit for more than 5 minutes at a time most days and i have an old desktop computer and what feels like a cinder block for a chair.  the smallest reason is that he has launched more and more vile epithets about my work here (that he claims to have never read) lately than i can really tolerate on a good day.  there just aren’t many good days. and.. well.. you know..

 

phantoms so wild and shaking, so hard

that i think i’m breaking under a weight that’s too big to swallow

so for wallowing’s sake i’ll think of a grave so pitifully shallow.

because my sick is just to much sorrow.  my blank grave mark’s for you’re tomorrow.

it wouldn’t do good to beg any comfort when it’s borrowed.

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new years day for liars and hostages isn’t new or happy.

don’t read me wrong.  i’m not his hostage.  i’m my own.   i am responsible for enduring this.

all day has been such a mess.  stupid, worthless and totally unnecessary lies, anger belching out of him towards our daughter for acting her age (under three) and his best friend (paranoia) have all taken turns.  an 1/32nd inch wick on his t.n.t. would be enough for the fire department to monitor were it literal.  maybe they could send the robots to defuse him or destroy him.  good luck getting me to care which it were tonight.  i’m aghast at foul demeanor on holidays..

i made the traditional beans, greens and cornbread anyway.  i need all the luck, money and gold that i can get my hands on.  do wish my daughter and i good luck for this year should you have a moment.  we will really will need it.

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had to crap out that last post before i could move forward in my life.  it is what it was.  and what it was it isn’t anymore.  i have heavy decision making dark matter in a sack over my shoulder all the time.

that must be why… my new thoracic mri showed 4 black discs, two bulging and deforming my spinal cord.  no nerve damage yet.  my lumbar disc is also “bulging”.  this is fine in your 30’s, the thoracic results are, um… not fine.

new tests are to be performed.  medication maintenance is now handled by a pain specialist.  some of my pain may be nueropathy.

i cannot get over the news from a healer in another city that i am keeping something very hateful low in my chakras and if i don’t let it go, i will only grow the pain syndrome i have now.

i’ve looked so hard for the reason to all of this.  i have searched myself.  i cannot find any undue anger just lying around unused.

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post start date:  nov 4 2010…

anniversary time,  happy happy!!  happy radial and ulna fracture!  happy “bon anniversaire, mon divorce hypothétique!”

“feliz aniversario, mi divorcio hipotética!”

“felice anniversario, il mio ipotetico divorzio!”

“юбилеем, мой гипотетический развод!”

you’re worth a bag of sick,

“ครบรอบปีที่มีความสุขการหย่าร้างสมมุติของฉัน!”

“記念日おめでとう、私の架空の離婚!”

“週年快樂,我的假設離婚!”

“sretna godišnjica, moj hipotetski razvod!”

“גליקלעך יאָרטאָג, מיין כייפּאַטעטיקאַל גט!!”

happy google translate.

but, yeah, a year ago he jumped up at me and took me down with all of his force saying, “you think you’re tough?  i can be tough too.”  my poor wrist was broken in his hand as it smashed against a table on the quick way down.  that was the first moment of silence we’d had in over an hour while i looked, in total sobering shock, at my twisted arm that was rapidly swelling and changing color.  we’d been fighting and i had lost all control and was hitting him with all of my primal anger and weak hands.  he’d accused me of cheating again.  it was almost a pastime of his, accusing me of things and finding ways to further isolate me.  this time his insecurity involved a man i worked with.  i lost it.  i kept thinking, “you are not going to take my job away… you are not going to make me feel guilty for supporting my daughter.. you are not going to take the pride i have in my work away from me!!!  i don’t deserve this, i’ve never deserved this.”

(do i really want to go into the next moments?  can i?  i’ve really got to.  these are the really painful memories and the gray areas.)

i managed to weakly bark out, “you broke my fucking wrist.”  “call 911.”

no.

he wasn’t going to call 911.

i certainly wish he hadn’t now.  if i’d had any idea what would happen to me,  i’d have crawled to the ER by my teeth.

no.  no.  no.  he wasn’t going to call and he had thrown my phone and i couldn’t find it.  staying low, i crawled to the front door and opened it and started screaming for help from the neighbors.  he grabbed my bluejeans and pulled me inside again, slamming the door behind us.  at that moment, it occurred to me that he was going to kill me.  horrific pain was setting in and i was too weak to fight him for help so i just pleaded repeatedly and cried, hoping to find the place where he keeps his shame and guilt or simply badger him into doing something.  “they’re going to arrest us both and our daughter is going to go to social services.”  “CALL!!!” i yelled.  what a mistake, one of my worst.

i never thought in a million years that they would arrest me.  i thought they were going to take him and put him where he belonged and that we’d sort through his treatment, child custody and our separation later.  what a relief it would be to come home from the ER and have him gone.  oh justice!  oh righteousness! oh how naive.  i’ve always known he was a liar.  a poor one.  just as poor at it as our police force is at their work.

and it rolls.  downhill all the way he’s got me rigid.

i went to my talk therapy.  there had been quite a delay.  i had forgotten all the broken children he left inside of me between our visits. upon query of him i gave too favorable of a report.  i just found last month’s apology letter and the last three days have cut me to threads of old sinew and short muscular fibre of little use.  of little taste, some butcher’s remains am i.  as i ride on my ticketed rickety train from a departure point of sane to an arrival in good old terror depot.  yarrow, pennyroyal, emmenagogues.. a cramp fed straining of my fragile bowel heart.  my gut receiver.  my pennyroyal, my dear black cohosh, do you work psychically?

can you abort him,

can you keep me while he tries to kill me, can you keep me well?  or  hide me from the manic carousel?

he is going to kill me
i found out the other day it’s so rarely complete, my full sentence, my full thought.

of course you can’t.  stay tuned.  it’s ratcheting up.

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i went on my half of our divorced vacations into the mountains of colorado via albuquerque.  flying with my daughter was easy, save the luggage portion.  after our trial run a few days before we had everything pretty much down to a science.  our arrival at my parents’ summer home was like some sort of bath for me.  stress washed off me like a good coat of woodstock worthy mud.  i enjoyed breathing there.  i enjoyed everything from the moment he drove away from us at the airport.

i was really, really well.  i was suffering from severe back pain, but it didn’t matter.  i had no emotional stress.  i drank far less than i had been drinking at home, because i didn’t really feel like it, certainly not because there weren’t bottles or outstretched hands.  i only felt the urge of total obliteration one evening in a week and a half.

the break from the heat in austin alone was so well worth the trip, but the calm that i began to grow used to was probably the most valuable thing about it all.  not the family togetherness, the nature, the nostalgia, but the calm.  the breathing.  a lot of people have more trouble breathing in higher altitudes.  i didn’t.  in fact, i used less albuterol while i was there than i have in months.  maybe you can explain that by pointing at central texas allergies.  that’s not how it feels to me though, my magical thinking has led me to believe that i actually breath better away from him.

ha… well, maybe.  one thing is absolutely certain.  i ate food.  i ate at least twice a day.  thank goodness for mom.  i still prepared all of our daughter’s food and snacks separately and cleaned up after us.  the only difference was that i ate as well.  i ate the first night home, but i have not been very adept at eating in the past few days.

he’s been… sort of on a rip… or something.  bad things, not involving me, have sort have fallen (read: landed) on him (because of things that he said or did) and left him in puddles of trouble.  he’s dusted his ass off and currently seems to be looking okay.  but, he isn’t.  he’s more depressed than i’ve seen him since last fall.  all interactions that i have with him include stunts of his most favorite veins: passive aggressive manipulation, extreme defensive posturing, self deprecating interrogation and (everyone’s favorite) allusions to suicide.

so.. i can’t eat, can’t breath and i’m drinking too much.  again.

we had a valuable talk about him getting help today.  it came out to be worth the value of one particular statement he made: “no one can help me.”

i’m in there.  i’m in the focus group of no one.  i cannot help him.  i cannot help myself when i try to help him.  i can’t breathe here.

most immediately, i have no idea what to do.

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it would be unreasonable and unfair to blame my problems on someone else, right?

let’s face it i’ve always had problems.  from my drunk mom to my disappearing dad.  they don’t pull you into private therapy from school at the age of nine if you’re okay.. and you’ve always been doing just fine.

they’d give me play dough to build the entities i despised.  they were traits for me and not people and i destroyed them as soon as i built them up.  i told the same truth i have always told, my truth.  so when my file and i got to middle school and i landed 7 state felony counts in one blow my creative writing class took on a whole new meaning.  my favorite subject was simply a double agent.  my stories landed me in alanon to deal with my mother’s disease.  if only i’d known then…

all the things i know now.

absolutely everything would be the same.

so it’s really hard to call anyone out as the reason i’m so fucked up and have been drinking in excess for three days.  it just wouldn’t be warranted, if i said, that someone or something made me feel like checking out (of here) – or checking into the nearest funny farm.  i have to have some autonomy left, right?  left, right? left right left right left right.  these are my decisions.  i have made them as awful as they are.  tomorrow the plane comes and takes me away from here.

how will i come back home?  yes, yes, by the plane.  back to silence and fear.

not to worry now, not now.

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