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Archive for the ‘primary aggressor’ Category

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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there just isn’t enough.  there isn’t enough money or love.  there isn’t any time or virtue.  there isn’t enough pride or care.  there isn’t enough autonomy or responsibility.

my cup runneth under.

and no one cares a wince, gives an inch or takes with them what they leave.  my cup is a bottomless trash heap.  it no small wonder i still drink.  take all of this tragedy in a crash course with me in its trajectory and i explode in solemn bits simultaneously.

i let one thing or the other take its’ piece of me.  the clicking as i write.  is about to cause a good old fashioned fight.  i don’t get to be just me anymore.  i’m poorly paid rented out whore.  to any cooking or cleaning or cancer parade down 290 that i can possibly make.  i’ve less friends than fingers and know more sinners than saints.  i’ve sure had it with my fine chalice.  i’ve sure had it with malice and love and i’ve just had it. i’ve had it all.  i did everything that i wanted to and more and the pile of the mire of my life that it bore is a pile i’m soon make a pyre.  set the whole motherfucking thing on fire.  get important papers in order. poor me.  and i bet, poor you.  i bet on poorer you than i gamble on poor me because i’m sure that this suffering is par for the same course that i set when i married someone i already thought i’d divorce.  poor me.  poor me.  peas porridge in the pot.  it’s nine days old it’s smells like the skunk i hit tonight on the road.

if you cant find me the dopamine, i’ll go get the dope.  i’d take just about anything that would untie the rope. i’m sick to death of being sick to death.  they don’t know what i behold and can still bestow and the state can’t even give me my papers to free my body from death row as a mother, a wife and a lover.  i’ve got no charges and i’m still an offender in someone’s rear ender.  life ender.  destruct the fucking courts while you destruct the fucking lenders.  i’m in the doom of being robbed straight from my from womb.

sorry… that pause was for some old fashioned fighting.  it’s pretty much how we say goodnight and good morning.  in the middle of each.  this isn’t a warning.  it’s just my crap rap.  it’s my brain on drugs, the kind your doctor hugs when his dividends reach over thousands prescribed.  i’ll imbibe and imbibe until you tell me the refills are over.  i can make it back to sober.  i’ve done it so many times.

thank you father pharma for offering me my best life.  it may not be the best but, the worst is best unsubscribed and undesired, undescribed.  i’ve married a pathic my days are not centric on any calendar, just the waving of who’s white flag.   who bows first.  who controls most.    if you’re the  parasite i’ll surely be your host because i love you and i would rather teach you than beat you.  love you than eat you and frankly life is coming down to boast of its’ ghost soon.  so if you think you’re doing it alright i can bet you’re doing fine with the most, quit leaving me the first responder, i don’t own anything that can shock you. you have to do the work that i’ve done, treat our daughter like a son and quit the fuck following after and after. you have to be your own mommy now.  it’s just history.  your old me.

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