The Struggle.

All that is happening now does, indeed, go back to the incident in Arizona. The surgeries that she has already undergone and recovered from have each been in attempt to separate scar tissue that has grown around Boo’s trachea from being cinched by a belt for nearly two days; also – her inability to speak has finally been de-mystified as well. The same thing is happening at the base of her vocal chords, as a result of scar tissue build-up, only the vocal cords have been permanently affected by residues left from the chemicals that Boo had been forced to drink during her captivity. The doctors have done what they can without sending her to a specialist for what is considered as “delicate surgery”; the next step to come.
Within the month, she will be going to Stanford for such things…and I have little doubt behind her strength or ability to deal with it. She remains in care still – a milestone in and of itself; she is bored beyond description, covered in bed sores, and must be feeling pretty low…yet, she hasn’t left again. Her little boyfriend (the one who do not necessarily like so much but cannot deny his humanity in comparison to the other men she has surrounded herself with in the past) comes to visit her now; I know that makes her feel like the world isn’t ending, after all. Anything that helps her to stay put and ride out the road ahead through her physical recovery – I am on board with it.
She has grown up so much…in such a short time…she is so jaded and darkened by her own experiences, that I watch her struggle with simply being cared for by another human being…it’s rough. But she’s letting it happen – as hard as it may be on her.

20150904_140004-1

Deflation.

“Hope is a good breakfast but a bad supper.”
~ W. Rawley

When you have a daughter like mine, this is the element that destroys you:
The incurable death wish that transcends even a hole in her own throat; Boo left the hospital last night at some point with an unknown couple and has not returned.
Granted, it is her M.O. to disappear from a recovery unit in the hospital, she has always done that. But never before has she had something as serious as a tracheotomy to worry about. She was notably struggling to breathe in the hospital – what is she going through out there? I don’t understand…I don’t believe it…but I am forced to accept the fact that she intended it. She apparently walked out by her own free will once again. She likes to think that she knows everything and has it all under control, somehow…and…well, we have all seen how well she keeps things under control…
So once again, as of the instant I woke up this morning:
My heart has disappeared to an unknown location outside of my body but still pumps and beats painfully.

inked us 2015

Dear Dead Man.

Dear dead terrorist man,
AKA: my ex-husband,
I wanted to confess to you,
your continued presence in my space,
a circumstance of Déjà vu,
black and blued our daughter’s face,
I thought you should hear it,
since you’re not here to have to,
look in her face,
with her eyes like a raccoon’s;
it’s only fair,
that you be,
burdened,
and bothered…
to learn,
what she’s again been through,
you still fucking linger,
in the carbon atom,
and well-hidden,
unbidden…
forgiven in an innocently executed ruse,
she has your eyes,
impossibly long lashes,
to bat away told lies,
you’re a Dead Man now,
no sweat left for your brow,
you’re gonna have to handle the truth;
you’re gonna have to know it,
hear it all, through and through…
I wish you were living,
can you believe I’d say so?
Just long enough,
to walk in all tough,
you like to think,
nobody,
can make your eyes blink,
but if you had to see,
if your eyes,
had to perceive,
such atrocity,
as our own,
smiling baby,
all full-grown,
and battered,
just like you battered me…
you’d die again.

Denominator.

I guess I just have it in my blood to trust the wrong people throughout my time on Earth amongst other human beings –or whatever you’d call those carbon-based, sets of bones with a thin layer of skin stretched tightly (or loosely) around each one, with seemingly emptied out, bobbling heads attached – I sure as Hell hate to call those things “people”.
I have mastered the unrewarding, often self-masochistic, pseudo-“art” of choosing the most shallow and self-absorbed individuals on whom to place importance and on whom to martyr my dwindling ability to trust. At some point in my life, I got to where I can no longer blame the vernacular beasts that I choose to surround myself with for such miserable incompatibility; sooner or later, I had to swallow the realities that I find consistently staring back at me through the eyes of my own reflection.
I eventually began to accept the fact that if I am incompatible with so “very, very many” of my own species, the likelihood of that incompatibility being born of the “shortcomings” of that group of “very many people” is low, if even in existence. I have truly realized and began to accept that I am the faulty common denominator in the countless equations of social arithmetic that I pathetically fail to wrap my thick head around – the continual negative sum in the mathematics of human behaviors and relationships – worthy or otherwise, I am the common denominator. PERIOD.

1421876244430-1Naturally, the majority of “relationships” that I can stake any claim to throughout my scarce and, undoubtedly warped experiences within the realm of human intimacy have each been notably unhealthy in at least one major aspect. I do not know what it looks or feels like to be in a healthy relationship with anyone in a romantic context. In spite of the insatiable hunger and longstanding desire I remember always harboring to have this elusive, healthy thing. At the end of the day when all’s said and done – I wouldn’t recognize a healthy relationship if it came up and bit me in the face…how could I recognize something I’ve never seen before? I have only misidentified the chances that I might have had in the past at healthiness in a committed relationship with someone; I have only mistreated the good standings I’ve had with men who may have been exceptional if I had given them a fighting chance. I just can’t trust the words that people choose to waste on me anymore, at all – not women, not men – not anyone – ever, in any circumstance. My issues behind the inability to foster commitment run so deeply entrenched at this stage of “the game” that I have truly started to question whether or not any amount of therapy, strenuous physical exercise, or exhausting mental stimulation by the opposite sex could ever actually change my perceptions back to what I think that they once must have been.
I do not know if I find this revelation a good one or a horribly life-altering one, either. I have been behaving so ambiguously the past few years in general, in all honesty. It’s been very strange to feel so indifferently over everything – another HUGE shift from the person that I used always like to think I was; Life’s formerly Technicolor scenery has been replaced by a drabber, grey-scale version of it. The white noise of my existence resembles the constant, bellowing rolls of thunder that accompany the bolts of constant lightning that crack like live wires of energy gone awry: a chaotic soundtrack that perfectly mirrors my psyche and syncs naturally with my soul. During nighttime the soundtrack only shifts into the noise of a low-volume baseball game’s announcers and noise.
I have not lived a perfect life by any means; I don’t claim to have, and I am also much too self-aware to dare try. I know that I have let many people down along the way to where I stand now in life, and death. I know that my combative spirit is NOT the ONLY reason why I have survived as long as I have; I realize that I hold no special title to the world’s shallow, robotic inhabitants, nor would I like to if given the chance to hold one:
…a bunch of fuck-heads…
People disgust me with their’ all-consuming need to rise in rank – to “ever-aim-higher” – to continuously yearn for what ISN’T in a given existence…bigger, stronger, faster – better and worth more money…
Me: I don’t have this parasitic social handicap I suppose; because I could honestly care less about having bullshit possessions that I can carry around and flaunt – to show off to my heartless “friends”. I do not count the monetary value of my possessions against my own cha-cha in the Universe; I don’t ever let my head fill entirely up with the environmentally poisonous, bullshit hot air.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

MMMM MMMMM MMMMM.

I’d trade anything I own in a nano-second in exchange for some sort of true comfort that Boo could eternally call hers – that nobody and nothing could ever steal from her. The rest of the world and the bullshit happening in it just seem so insignificant and muted to me – while my daughter spirals downward into what should have been her future. Her eighteenth birthday quickly approaches now – in May…and I carry so much fear and dread as well as excitement and relief over her coming of age and being set free. I’ve only recently opened my fucking eyes and seen the striking similarities between Boo and I in regard to commitment issues, somehow…not sure what the fuck I have been paying attention to, but it’s like a metric fuck-ton of bricks from the top of the Empire Reality Building have crumbled and landed on my head, in terms of Boo’s shiftiness.
Basically, somehow I have managed to totally overlook the FACT that despite my painstaking efforts when she was a baby and her father and I were together still – to protect her from seeing things that he’d done to me, in a wide and creative array of ways, trust me – she still KNEW. She always knew. Even before she knew that she knew, or what it was that she knew – she knew. I’ve always known this deep down in my heart, for obvious reasons…but as with my former drug addiction during the same era of her life, there’s nothing I can do un-do any of it, so other than to simply try and persevere onward and upward from those past mistakes of mine – there’s little I’ve ever been able to process surrounding any of it. Of course, she and I have always had issues over her father’s sudden and permanent absence from her toddler-hood; she remembers him being there always and then one day just not ever being there again. In her perceptions however, she does not recollect the FACT that I also disappeared from her life at the same exact time as he did – only temporarily. All these years later as a full grown woman, I see the unacknowledged trauma that must have created for Boo, in itself. She doesn’t deal with it properly because she has somehow warped her perceptions into something other than what they actually were. She would tell you that her father “just up and left me and my mom one day…”, which anyone who knows anything about our story knows wasn’t even close to how shit went down. She hardly ever even talks about my absence/injury/hospitalization period at all – never has.
These thoughts of mine have me wondering things about why it seems to be so much more difficult to really get through to her about ANYTHING. I’m realizing that her entire perception of all things shared between our life experiences, together or separately, is contrasting to my own.

math_friends…which brings me back to my original point with this:

Who then, in these instances between Boo and me, is the common denominator?

Tears.

 

I’m crying a lot again lately…the Holidays, I assume…

the point of my post is not to gain pity from anyone reading this, it’s simply an observation that I’ve made over the past week about my own tears and the way that they seem to work.

I blew my nose this morning after a disgusting sneezing/coughing fit (yes, I have the creep and bronchitis still…), and was somehow given the cursedly magical flashback of a time during Boo’s earliest years alive – she was probably around 3 or so; she inherited her mother’s schedule-bending allergies, and I flashed upon the time she was learning how to blow her nose. I was overcome by the memory of holding a wad of tissues to her little button nose and directing her to blow from her “booger holes” as hard as she could – and the experience that followed my instruction – the one in which I learned how well my only child can mimic me; she blew with all her might into the tissues and never had a runny nose again, to my recollection. People always used to trip out about the way my toddler regularly retrieved a tissue and blew her little faucet nose, without being told to do so.

She was such a miniature adult, always….

I cried for about an hour after I finished blowing my nose.

 

Next, were the stupid Candy Corn Rocks in the box of Halloween decorations that I begrudgingly pulled out at my roommate’s out-of-character request (wtf???)

The year before she left my life, Boo and I painted some river rocks that we had started collecting right after I came home from the hospital; the collection had grown over the handful of years, and we spent a lot of time and attention on finding rocks that were specifically reminiscent of Candy Corns, because when we started out with it, she was too young to differentiate shapes very well and it was one she could easily identify. It had been her random idea to paint them in time for what would become our very last Halloween at home together. When I see them, I feel both endearment and bitterness; one of my hands wants to throw each rock as far away from me as I can manage; the other hand wants to somehow wrap each one up and protect it from anything and everything because it’s Boo.

Samhuinn

As the “Dark Side of the Year” quickly approaches, my ‘psychological overdrive’ kicks into  ‘Beast Mode’ – every year now, without fail.The holidays are especially difficult for me these days – it was the holidays last year that prompted me to begin a blog here, as a matter of fact – the pain and emptiness has gotten nearly unbearable.

When I was still a Mom, I was no different from most: I obnoxiously over-decorated the house and dressed up in micro-detailed costumes for Halloween with Boo every year since I came home from the hospital when she was almost five. At Christmas, we ALWAYS went and picked out whichever tree she chose (even if it was terribly hard on the eyes for any being with aesthetic ability) before decking it out beyond recognition with the shiniest and near-blinding ornaments and tinsels…some of them even flashed or blinked, it was insane. I spent hours and hours each year wrapping up her fuckloads of presents and stocking stuffers with the girliest wrap I could find (typically, waaaay overpriced stuff that I had spent an arm and a leg on during one of her previous school fundraisers), and baked so many cookies and treats for class parties that I couldn’t even try to count all of the batches in and out of the oven.

Christmastime was when I would finally get to buy Boo things that I had socked cash away for since the prior holiday season; it was always a chance for me to see her happy, even if that happiness was in the temporary form of watching her gaggle over a gift she had opened, and loved. I don’t know…I guess the holidays were the only time that she and I were ever able to feel close enough to one another to let go of the trauma between us, that defined both of us somehow. She always openly missed her Father at Christmas; some of her ONLY existing memories of him are enveloped by the holiday season and everything that’s associated with it. I always told her stories about what he was doing where he was – the most despicable piles of bullshit that I have ever uttered to my daughter – I would tell her about the way “he missed her so much and planned to have her with him again for Christmas someday”, even if it was without me, I assured her that he wished she were there with him. I have no idea if she bought those stories or not, but at the time it was all I could come up with in response to her queries about him. I didn’t even know where he was for a few of those first conversations.

Anyway, yeah…well now days – I’m alone every year. My isolation over the holidays is mostly because I choose to be solo; I prefer to be alone in solitude for whatever reason to endure, as opposed to attending any of the meals or celebrations that I am invited to by various people who probably feel sorry for me. I won’t even spend my holidays with Jack the EMT anymore; I am the wettest of wet blankets during this season – can never wait for it to come and go so that I can begin to recover once more. It’s a recurring wound – a reinfection – a rip down the seam of my mending soul…I know the hollowness and sense of loss that bleeds the brightest, freshest blood from my heart this time of year will never cease to reappear with the Harvest Moon, despite my efforts to ignore Christmas lights and Halloween parties and New Year’s fireworks; I can lie to myself all I want and pretend those things don’t exist anymore, but that hasn’t worked thus far because here I am.

Alone.

Empty.

Embittered.

Spent.

 

HAPPY HALLOWEEN

Fleeting Thoughts.

oooLast week, I received another one of those insanely embarrassing manila envelopes in the mailbox; you know? – The kind that make all of your neighbors, as well as the postman dropping it off to you, start to wonder about your status as an upstanding, tax-paying citizen in the local community…

The sender of such an obnoxiously UN-funny joke in the form of ‘official court documents’ pertaining to my daughter’s very life and future; or more accurately: lack, thereof – could be none other than the Department of Family & Children’s Services, pretending to be busy.

These paper-wasting packages of meaningless legal jargon infuriate me without fail; I have gotten into the habit of putting them aside until a time when I already am in a fit over something, or at least – ready to be in a very bad mood for a while. These postal coverings of the social worker’s ass always feel similar to what receiving a “progress report” from Satan must feel like; upon reading them, I am systematically thrown into a frenzy of anger and disgust that become so all-enveloping and consuming to me, that I can sadly report to the regular experience of true WRATH and REVENGE, and all things that accompany such ugliness.

 THIS IS WHAT’S LEFT OF MY “LIFE”……..

 I haven’t shown up on time to a court date for over two years; I intentionally wear the most impossible ‘metal-detector-friendly’ clothing I can scare up without fail; I chain-smoke the entire way there in the car with my windows rolled up and Sepultura blasting as loud as my one functional ear can stand it – tears of frustration streaming down my expressionless face. I harbor a hatred for the so-called ‘professionals’ within this particular corner of the Juvenile Justice System that is like no other emotional low I have ever known or even imagined humanly possible. When I do get there, and finally make my way through the ever-teeming ocean of pond-scum in the lobby to the courtroom, I am intrinsically aware that it’s only a matter of moments before I will be in handcuffs, escorted to the Deputy’s cruiser out back – where I will wait for about an hour in the caged backseat until the session is over, and anyone else who’s been held in ‘contempt’ will have been led out to the car as well.

My life has been left in shambles of shambles, as a result of the JOKE of the legal process supposedly in place to protect my daughter from the harm and permanent traumas of her own growing mental illness. As her eighteenth birthday draws nearer; and I am nearly able to taste the bile that’s building in my esophagus for all of these years now – as I anxiously anticipate the God-forsaken day that the Department becomes legally “unbound” to her and in turn: throws her to the wolves to fend for herself in world only made uglier for her by its total lack of concern for her general well-being; my blood begins to boil combustibly under my crawling skin. The light left the tunnel years ago; and I gave up on holding out any hopes for a happy (or even, acceptable) outcome when it comes to Boo.

There’s a technique used by the Department (DFCS) to help its evil processes run smoothly: Parental Alienation.

By executing this long and emotionally torturous tactic within the context of a Juvenile Dependency or Delinquency case, the Department can typically estrange a child from his/her parent(s) permanently within a matter of months. The legal process designed to accompany this procedure on an “official” timeline is systematically applied to ensure the Department’s success in such destruction to a family unit. The children in the system are flat-out LIED TO by assigned case-workers; and the court-appointed attorneys are negligent as Hell, to say the very least.

I will NEVER understand exactly how and/or when the Department supposedly intended to respond on behalf of my daughter, upon her being sexually assaulted by a sub-contracted “counselor” at a court-appointed placement for her behavioral issues.

I will NEVER comprehend how the Department’s collective ignorance to the truth and avoidance of what’s right and just to a child’s welfare and future disposition has continued to go overlooked by all and any involved.

I will NEVER accept the fact that there are people being PAID for the despicable things that Boo continues to enabled to be akin with, to grow accustom to.

I will NEVER forget. Until I am cremated and thrown from an ugly urn somewhere – this REALITY will remain singed into the carbon of my DNA; and will not be painted over with fresh coats of comfort – not for me or anyone else – outside of the ONE AND ONLY relevant one involved: my Boo.