Archive for the ‘story of my life’ 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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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,




“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.”


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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NSFW language.

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plague mass. i mean the density of my plagues, the sum total of my many illnesses (they should really change that to illni ((save the illinoisans uses for it)) ) and not diamonda galás and her valiant campaign for hiv awareness and acceptance.  i’m not saying prayer for my hair loss, for instance..

i’m keeping track of the mass of it.  one fist full, two fists full, five.  in as many days.  my goodness, that’s odd. and now i can’t pin it up like before.  i actually backcombed it like they did in the 1960’s and…. it just agitated the whole process, and me, as i watched my hair fall out of my head for the last week.

i’m also sick in the lungs and sinus. 7 days sick.

i guess i’ve been too absent to mention that i had an mri and the result showed clearly degenerated discs. one entirely dark disc.  so the massive pain has been adjusted with norco to an only slightly debilitating pain.  cannot sit down or lift anything.  can walk five miles.  cannot get into car afterward…

i’ve started physical therapy.  i’m so weak in my right side from limping that i could barely perform some of the tasks asked of me in the orientation.  pushing against another person’s force is not something that i can do with my right limbs.  apparently the weakness goes all the way into my right arm.  hmmm…

after just recently stabilizing my mood and medications i am finding that health problems are putting me back in the hole.  two bad wrists and the back gone.  hair falling out with a scalp covered in hard cysts that interferes entirely with going “sinead” again.  even with some cysts surgically removed, scars still reduce or eliminate the possibility that i will just “rock it” bald ever again.


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or just “get loh”… for short. i read a list of scripts for that doll and i’ve got ‘er beat, i do.
it’s been worse since i discovered that i have a degenerated disc or “dark” disc that has flared like a chinese firework sending unintended sparks of pain down my legs and up to my shoulders in an out of control and startling spray of wild fire.

i have always had back pain. this is just new. i made sure it was documented in film, the beginning of my demise, so that i might be ensured to be insured or conversely certain of my disability status should i need to employ an alternate route of employment or entitlement. i’ve been chewed up and spit out the food pipe. it’s as clear as day.. or night… as my mri would convince you.

oh, and i’ve got a cavity.. in my tooth… my second one ever. what does a little more drilling style pain matter?

so.. for the “get loh”, reference, i mean to describe only the contents of my purse, not my behavior. being that i have a 2.5 year old daughter i carry all of my medications in my purse at all times. there is no room for error with some of the medications that i am prescribed and my little monkey has never met a child-proof cap that she couldn’t figure. so when i need the E-phone or a credit card or my keys, there are about 7 bottles of controlled substances in the way. sometimes, i have gum too, but for the most part a junkie would rob me.. and have a nice three days.

it’s a bit of a mirror looking into a bag like that that happens to be yours. the “c” or “n” at the beginning of each bottle number makes you feel a little far out. your name on all the bottles and the tally of your daily swallows makes you feel a little far out. even the closest of people can’t help it. i’m in my thirties, after all, not my seventies. it commands visual attention, often displayed as wide-eyed staring with deafening silence. don’t get me going on airport security… this is why i have sought out second opinions about my regime. i have been doubly assured that i will not suddenly die from this schedule of medicine. i’ve been told that there are far worse cases, longer lists and much more dire situations. i know that it’s true. my lohan is to your jackson. i just don’t want to be layne staley sometimes. it’s wise beyond strife and circumstance that i do not live alone. curse it.

so, to change the subject, we’re back to hell again. it has been declared my fault because i am the designated crazy person. i’m clear about that. i’m assured that my sensitivity to his drastic mood “swing” (as if it were a pleasant ride of some sort with a carnie taking your height by eyeball) caused me to interrogate him, beg for honesty from him and failing all other footholds, tell him to go to bed (get bent!). two weeks and three days we made it. we’ve not often fared so well. even my talk doctor was convinced that his resolve was not an act since it had lasted such a significant amount of time within our scope.

♫ qué sera, get fucked! whatever is now will be. the future ‘ain’t ours to fist, qué sera get, fucked!♫

the mood. the mood of doom. don’t blame me, i can’t drink proper on all these meds to even conceive of screwing us up this bad. i know what i felt. what i felt was… the old. the not forgotten old damage of our new time. there was jealousy and mistrust and distaste coming from his earthly soul. i’m not deaf/dumb/blind and the last of descriptions that you could coin for me would have to be, “imperceptive.” i am confident that i read the book correctly.

what heartbreak. what sorrow, what shame! what horror, what shock, what betrayal and antipathy.

all mine alone. i want to kick myself in the ass for allowing a single hope to build again. i’ll do better without anymore hope. i’m going to subtract it from my repertoire.

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