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?

It Is What It Is.

Last night, at around 8pm, my phone started ringing in my pocket; I was surprised to see Boo’s name brightly lighting up the screen through the dimness in my lap, playing the custom ringtone “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd loudly to the vibrating beat. It made so many wrong things feel right to talk to Boo on Christmas, last night…

It has been since our dog Ozzy died in late June, that we last spoke. Since we have seen one another, she had a birthday…our relationship truly couldn’t be any more estranged and alienated. The more time that passed by without any contact, the more guilt was stacking up behind each minute spent separated from each other like we have been forced to be. It’s been so, so long this way…inhumanely long. She writes to me often enough, robotic letters that hold no meaning – just words that she thinks she’s expected to write to her Mom at a given point in time. I admit, I have been withdrawn from her; which is inexcusable, so I won’t bother with coming up with any excuses behind this fact; it is what it is.

Last night, we talked for 37 minutes straight! This is by far the longest I can ever recall having a conversation with Boo (in person or on the phone) without some type of major drama or explosion on her part. We are typically like fire and water; and the older Boo grows, the less often have we been able to even remain in the same vicinity for very long without combustion. She is very different than I am, always has been. She thinks that I am a “goody-two-shoes” somehow; this is a truth that still just blows my mind. I’m not sure where she ever got that from, but that’s her perception of me. It is what it is. I think she is a disloyal and conniving, beautiful and intelligent little blonde, long-lashed, doe-eyed creature; who has unfortunately come to epitomize the poster child for the self-imposed cycle of traumatic experience; she wouldn’t even begin to know how to break down that label into anything that made any kind of sense, though…she barely reads. It is what it is.

We talked last night about all kinds of stuff that I wouldn’t have expected to talk about with her. She has decided that she’s gay again – which is a song and dance that she has played with me since she was thirteen years old – for a reaction that I can’t believe she hasn’t learned by now, she isn’t gonna get from me on that score. I always tell her without fail (and I mean it, too) that she can be with whoever she wants to be with and have my approval so long as it’s a healthy and somewhat “normal” relationship. I couldn’t give a shit if she’s gay. It is what it is.

We talked about her caseworker and how useless she is, which led to other conversations that got my blood boiling, as usual, in the context of that good for nothing, stinky bitch caseworker assigned to my daughter’s gig. Boo said, “I wish I could just get myself arrested somehow so I would get a probation officer, instead (of the caseworker)…”; a remark which at first made me cringe, until I remembered having once said the exact same words from a juvenile holding cell…damn…it is what it is.

My Heart Hurts.

ha

“Night Terrors”

Boo suffered Night Terrors since she was old enough to dream, I think…

Even before the attack on her mother – by her father, she always openly dreaded sleeping. She struggled mightily against the act of actually falling asleep since she was a newborn, seriously…she used to do regular face plants into her cereal bowl at night in her high chair at the kitchen table with her father and I. Even as an infant, her sleeping schedule was that of a middle-aged, workaholic adult.

I remember so many frustrating nights with her in her room, trying to lull her to sleep somehow: through traditional bedtime stories, songs, back and/or arm “tickles”, just my quiet presence in the bed beside her little, restless form. I remember how she used to draw invisible things on the wall with her tiny finger in the darkness, in total silence, thinking about Gods know what…I don’t know if Boo still has Night Terrors, but… I would venture to guess her Night Terror has likely evolved into something much more horrible than it ever could have been during her childhood. I wish I knew my Boo at all, anymore…

blueI can say that I now suffer from something similar to the psychological thing known as Night Terrors, as well. Oddly I didn’t experience anything like it throughout my surgeries and hospitalization period – maybe my brain just wasn’t capable of such things back then, who knows? It’s only getting worse as time goes by, too – it’s becoming kind of a problem for me as of late…I can’t really sleep anymore. I just semi-sleep on the tacky surface of this place called Slumber…I ‘dream’ in rapid succession non-stop from the time I sort of fall asleep until I finally “wake up” between 5 and 5:30am in a fucking layer of Jello-sweat and barely able to catch my breath. I usually can’t recall any details of my nightmares …I just know that whatever is happening in my dream-scape is stuff that leaves me feeling terrified and jumpy and paranoid as fuck for the first few hours of every day…no fun. My therapist always defaults everything that I go through during the Holiday Season back onto that factor in itself – especially these days, since I truly and genuinely HATE this season with all of my hollow heart. But I’m just not so sure that he gets me completely, so I continue to doubt his generalized and seemingly lazy opinions of me and my issues.

(They say that’s a red flag symptom of mental illness/instability: second-guessing your shrink like it’s a sport and you’re the Champion) …Fuck ’em….

I do not want to start having to take pills to sleep; I also don’t want to gradually become so delirious from lack of sleep that I lose it, altogether…I don’t want to face the Holidays all over again when I feel like I am still not even recovered from last year’s painful experiences with it…I wish it were different – I used to love the Holidays; I wish I weren’t stuck in this precariously teetering state on the ledge anymore – I wish I could just suck it up and BUST A GRAPE – good, bad, or life-sentence. There is no “better” in the future when it comes to Boo and me; and it hurts like Hell.

Just take it.

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

Justice For Boo – PART I – The Discovery – 2009

BOO’S STORY:

Image

The restaurant was dimly lit and the mood was calm and easy, hushed voices whispering stories to one another throughout its interior. It was the place where we had celebrated my daughter’s past few birthday dinners, at her request; she had taken a liking to seafood as she grew up. Personally, I don’t care for it too much, but like most things in motherhood, that factor washed out the window with my child’s stated wishes. There we sat, talking about school and her wide array of “frenemies” there; her face randomly becoming lit by the shadows of light dancing around the archaic candle at our table – her increasing beauty affecting a slap in my face from Good Ol’ Father Time, I recall.

“Can you believe you’re already thirteen?” I teased her across the table, snickering and rolling my eyes in an effort to provoke her into a response.

Our relationship had been heavily strained leading up to this night: her thirteenth birthday – an estrangement that happened as a result of the local courts and child welfare agencies. We had been separated for nearly a year at that time, the very first year of our two-unit family’s still unrecognized, yet inevitable demise; the very first of a long string of years lost down the drains of time.

An imposing wedge in the form of a gavel had been forcibly squeezed between us with a shoehorn. We had suffered a trauma to our daily lives when she had been court-ordered to “residential treatment” at a nearby facility for children who suffer from behavioral issues (which Boo most certainly did).

“No…..it feels like I should be turning sixteen already…” was her response from across the heavily lacquered shine of a redwood tabletop, her large, hazel doe eyes shot up again to meet mine “…feels like I’ve been gone forever…”Boo’s reply was not one of anger or bitterness, as is often the case when it comes to the things Boo says.

And so it goes: A simple observation of Boo’s reality regularly and innocently transforms into a crushing blow to my own.

I reached over and grabbed her greasy hand, locked my fingers tightly around the little fingers so likened to my own, and said, “This’ll all be over before you know it, Kiddo…hang in there, we’re almost done.” Boo smiled, a smile that has the ability to melt away every bad notion that’s ever entered my mind, body or soul, and simply said, “I know, Mom.”

The rest of our dinner had been eaten without incident; and when the waiter and some random servers from other tables came around with a slice of cake topped off by a candle and an obnoxious level of un-harmonized singing, she happily accepted the attention and dessert offering. It was during this last part of her birthday meal that everything changed forever.

She began to talk about her counselor, a man with whom she had grown very fond of and close to over the time she had been at the facility the judge ordered to go to; a man in whom I had always secretly harbored a deep distrust for and could not put my finger on exactly why that was. The details remain blurry but the end result stands out like a black sheep among newborn albino lambs:

–         My daughter proceeded to absentmindedly and unintentionally (by attempting to show off how mature she was becoming while away from home, I believe) spend over twenty minutes describing to me in a bragging-like manner (because she was not yet old enough to even comprehend that a crime was being committed against her) – the gut-stabbing realities that defined a new direction being taken in the “relationship” between she and her “one-to-one counselor “at the facility, and it was anything, but acceptable.

This was the true beginning of my own Living Hell, making the time and ALMOST the life I had lost to Boo’s father pale in comparison to the grief, despair, hopelessness, helplessness and injustice that accompanied this night’s discovery of a pedophile on the county payroll, counseling children in a facility to which 90% of them are court-ordered to be.

 

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