Thoughts.

Theoretically, last night should have brought me the best sleep that I have had in some time, after hearing a jury’s guilty verdict of the man who ruined my daughter so long ago.
As I lay there in darkness with buds tightly squeezed into each ear playing Ben Bonetti’s “Hello Spider” meditational gig, I began to think about the Pedophile’s family (he has a wife and two children the same age as my own), and was overcome with grief.
Over the last few years, I’ve seen his wife various times in passing- on the news, and other places associated with the common denominator between us; there are ill feelings in the air during each of these instances, almost naturally. I have watched the Pedophile’s aged and decrepit mother hobble up and down three floors with her cane to trial so many times I couldn’t count them if I tried; I have seen the toll taken in the faces of his kids as they have become young adults, just like my own has; I have watched his family disintegrate into dust amidst the chaos of what he has done.
These things do not give me a sense of peace or fairness in any way…two shocked and completely torn children who stopped showing up at trial days altogether about halfway through…the jolly smile gradually fading altogether from his ancient, crippled mother’s face…the last string of hope attached to his poor wife’s perception of his innocence just falling away into nothingness…
the many scenes that would undoubtedly be enacted most dramatically for a movie; the parts in which the viewers would be pumping fists and shouting “Yeah! That’s what they get!”
But reality tells me differently now… “they” don’t deserve this at all. They have been victimized also (especially the kids) and have been also been permanently damaged and traumatized by the actions of their’ Pedophile father. His wife, who stood by her man for years before finally becoming so jaded and embittered by the proverbial “bag” that she was left to hold after her husband was arrested, she has been traumatized as well by the causes and effects of her husband’s Pedophilia; she has truly been changed in many ways by this circumstance – and I am not even someone who knows her, but it’s that apparent, even to a stranger, how heavy her burden weighs in on her back – it shows in her face, her disappointment and shame…and, that isn’t fair – she isn’t the Pedophile. Last night, I found myself wondering about her; about what she was doing in response to this news that has lifted my spirits to new heights yesterday…what thoughts was she spending her night playing out through her tired mind?
Anyway, I am obviously relieved beyond words that he has been convicted of many counts (not just Boo), but the verdict and its permanence holds more facets carved into its surface than I had originally been prepared for, I guess.

That Way is ‘Up’.

2014-12-02_22.17.44It is December 5 today; 20 days away from the worst day of every year. In twenty days, I will spend another Christmas holiday alone, without family – without anyone who really cares one way or the other about the status of my presence…

By 20 days from now, I will again be wishing for death, fast or slow; peaceful or brutal.

For me,, all of the days leading up to that day will be filled with open wounds and overdoses of shame.

There will be triggers and flashbacks that make me run on edge and cranky as Hell.

Not a single day between then and today will leave me feeling even remotely complete, as I’m shopping for gifts for the normal people in my life who celebrate the holidays like normal people – as I’m fucking pretending.

All of the nights in between Christmas and last night will suck just as badly as the days will suck, no rest for the wicked…or broken-hearted.

I will dream of things that will never be and never could’ve been.

I will wake up with that gut-empty feeling and feel afraid for three straight hours with each sunrise, never learning to put my finger on the source of these feelings, or, to put them in check, despite my frustrating efforts.

And, on Christmas Day, itself:

I will sleep as late as I can in an indentation at the edge of my cold bed – between it and the cold wall.

It will take me hours on end to force the salinity from these swollen eyes and face my relatives, solo.

I won’t want to open my eyes at all on that day, I promise…

It feels as if the shameful cycle of my existence always gets close to erupting at this time of every year.

Everyone knows to leave me alone.

People know that there’s nothing they can do for me, there’s no solutions to offer or insight that hits on point.

If I feel lonely enough to expose myself to my extended family on that day, I’ll regret it rather quickly;

And, eventually wind up saying something fucked up to a member of my own family in an over-anxious, depressed and defensive state, before storming out in tears.

Been there, wrecked that.

I call this entire song and dance “The Circle of Holiday Death” – it happens over and over and over and over.

Each time that my heart, mind-state and blood pressure begin to “normalize” after the re-opened wounds, it’s Christmastime once again, and it all starts over.

People will ask me if I am okay until I will begin to respond with anger and irritability;

They will not understand.

Even my closest friends will avoid me because they simply CAN NOT offer me comfort in any way and they know this (the friends who have not already become totally overwhelmed by my reality and disappeared, altogether, that is).

I will seethe will anger at certain thoughts during this time of year.

The people who have created this Living Hell for Boo being able to happily celebrate around a table with their own loved ones, their own precious children;

While my baby’s spending the day alone in a locked cage, being told that she’s unimportant and being shamed.

IT HURTS ENOUGH TO MAKE ME DERANGED…

And through it all, I MUST keep my grip on composure; for I am NO good to the (God willing) older Boo if I end up in prison or dead before she turns 18.

I do not plan on abandoning Boo ever – – no matter how fucking bad it hurts me to follow through with.

SHE NEEDS ME; even if she doesn’t know it yet.

I have long been aware of the fact that I can’t undo whatever it was that did Boo;

I can only build from where we stand, upwards.

Our “relationship” is so far gone that I don’t feel as if it’s even possible for us to grow any further apart anymore.

So I guess there’s just one direction to go with it all, when it comes to Boo.

Image

Americana and Boo

Then....

Then….

 

Now…

Now.

Now.

 

ISO

ISO

Objective:           Seeking full-time sanity and normalcy; but will compromise for part-time or swing shift if full-time sanity is unavailable.

  • Will relocate if necessary; given relocation costs are at least reimbursed, in part. (I am willing to pay for this goal out of pocket.)

Experience:                 

Lifetime: Broken/damaged.

Birth – 1995: Drug Addict/criminal

1994 – 2001: Wife/hostage to a Psychopathic Murderer

2001 – 2003: MAJOR TRAUMATIC INJURY/long-term hospitalization/countless surgeries

2003 – 2009: Mother/gladiator

2009 – Present: Grieving Mother/local government hostage/ticking time bomb

The reasons I feel that I am a good candidate for sanity and normalcy are pretty straightforward:

  • I crave both things deeply and genetically.
  • I would not abuse either one in any way.
  • Without my achieving one or the other fairly soon, everybody involved better watch the fuck out.

 

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.

Lost Companions

Even in death, my longtime companion Ozzy is the healer that he was in life. Ozzy was not only my shadow; but for all of the years leading up to our separation, he was Boo’s as well – probably more so than mine back then.

Boo n Oz

Boo n Oz

His recent death was a long-anticipated blow to the very heart of my little dwindling family (now just me and one more old dog left now).

Me n Vega

Me n Vega

And it was even more tragic to have to tell Boo of his passing over the telephone; when I can’t hug her and rub her silky hair to ease the loss of her childhood friend. I know that this loss is very big to her, and very painful – and on top of all of the other bullshit that she is dealing with throughout her own inner-boxing matches with a very serious death wish, she will be dealing with this from her imprisoned sate of being, in another place, 724.9 miles away from my ability to comfort her. It’s rough…

Me n My Boy

Me n My Boy

Ozzy was always like a buffer in our household, especially when Boo was still at home and we struggled so to simply function as a “unit”, as different as she and I have always been. Ozzy was the peacemaker, the reminder that life is precious and full of wonder and fun. Ozzy’s gusto for life was unmatched, truly. He oozed happiness, he often would wag so hard and with so much cha-cha that we would joke about him “taking off” like a helicopter. He was friends with everyone: dogs, cats, birds and people, alike. He loved my daughter like a fat kid loves cake; he put up with lots of yelling, temper tantrums, crying, and every other intense emotion attached to a child’s out-of-control behaviors leading up to her leaving for court-ordered “treatment”. I watched him truly mourn the loss of her when she left, like a statue in the front yard for days on end – searching, waiting for her to return…confused about where she had disappeared to – wanting to fond her and bring her home. Oz was with me through that entire nightmare that followed too; thank the Gods – lest I be the murderer on death row for killing the man who ruined my daughter’s young life through his own pedophilia. Oz was the unspoken voice of reason in my inner-ear, always calm and loving and attentive – very human, for a dog.

Ozzy n me

Ozzy n me

Somehow, leading up to Oz’s death, Boo and I hadn’t been speaking since her return from her last hoorah beginning around New Year’s, and lasting until mid-February, when she was found on a highway in New Mexico somewhere out in the middle of nowhere with no clothes on and delirious from sunstroke and dehydration. I’ll spare you the ugliest of the details surrounding her physical state, but suffice to say – she was in BAD shape – once again. I am not angry with her; I am not forsaking her as my only child because of her behaviors by any means…

During Christmas and New Year’s and the following months of her total absence, of wondering whether she was dead or alive or being tortured somewhere by some drug-crazed, 45-year-old, sick fuck who values his can of beer more than her precious, beautiful life; something happened to me, something changed me – something died in me during those months. The ability to function and carry on normally dissipates when your kid is missing in action. The things that you are able to accomplish typically revolve solely around trying to ensure her safe return. Things get out of the normal scope of reality that you live in; things fall apart in and outside of your reeling mind and siphon-pumped heart. Things get hopeless, your heart becomes hollowed out like a tree…life embitters you to the point of near-insanity. There is no one to blame or take hostage until she is returned safely; there is no ransom to pay off – just emptiness and pain and fear – lot’s and lot’s of fear and anxiety.

Blue Skies

Blue Skies

She has been back in custody for a while (since early March), and I have been at a loss with her. I didn’t go when my parents went to see her for her birthday (she’s 17 now!!!), as I knew in my heart that something bad was going to happen, and it did. I don’t trust Boo; I can’t trust Boo – I have been burned so many times in the face of the loyalty to my “mini-me”…I cannot muster even the facade of trusting her anymore. It’s like the vampire that never stops sucking my life-blood from me, totally and completely futile.

SMILES

SMILES

Anyway, with Ozzy’s death, my initial instinct was to call Boo immediately; to have her know right away, and to have her hear it from me. All of these months without speaking to her became irrelevant with his passing, and the need to tell her was a pressing vice inside of my saddened heart right away. I called her; I told her about Ozzy. She cried and cried and so did I, as I am unable to control my own emotion when it comes to my kid – she is THE ONLY human on the planet that controls the water works on me in this way. Our tears gradually become laughter as we reminisced and remembered things about him; about our long history shared together with such a gift of a family companion: Our “Oz fest”.

That's his "Puppy Face"

That’s his “Puppy Face”

So after so many months of increasing distance and no words besides letters between us, Ozzy, “my boy”, even in death, from the grave, has managed to pull the strings that can only draw Boo closer to me once more – through his very passing. It’s really resonating with ,me – this concept…it makes me both very sad and happy all at once.

Messy Soot

 

Thinking back on all the times we’ve had…

to the present moment, everything’s so fuckin bad;

My very existence has turned upside-down…

The road that I was on got sucked underground.

 

I know that so much of your anger and misery…

are associated directly with thoughts of me;

and there’s nothing I can do to take that away…

but you will see things for yourself, someday.

 

It used to seem possible, that you’d come back “home”…

but I woke up one day and I’m all alone;

and during the years that have slipped right on by…

The enemy has become your own perceived ally.

 

Professional schemes to mask the bottom line…

that they could’ve cared less about you – all this time;

I still fight for and against your honor, from years ago…

While you drift away from the only family you know.

 

I have tried tirelessly to win justice for you…

while The Department takes credit for what’s not real or true;

after years separated, days each spent half alive…

so much life still shines through those beautiful eyes.

 

A handful of years thrown away – that we won’t get back…

no amount of money in the world could make up for that;

I want you know that I carry a pain that is quite real…

it’s the only thing left that I’m able to feel.

 

It fills in the void of my resigned, bitter mind…

with memories and thoughts of a much brighter time;

So for a moment, you’re “home” with me again…

the windows are open, and the sunshine pours in.

 

What was inside my heart that left with you…

it takes away the sense of falling completely through;

It reminds me of those long-forgotten, better days…

when I could reach out my hand and touch your sweet face.

 

As temporary as it is- gone from this place and time…

without those moments, I’d surely lose my mind;

When I open my eyes, the fog has returned…

and I’m buried beneath all of the bridges you’ve burned.

 

The curtains drawn closed, the rain pours drown…

and the gurgling of my spirit becomes the only sound;

I wonder if you know that I never wanted it this way…

Where I’m eternally hoping to see you alive again someday;

 

A circumstance captivated and cultivated through sheer stupidity…

A situation of manipulation in which everyone wins but you or me;

I can’t tell you to forgive the forsaken things you perceive…

I can only tell you how wrong I am been to still believe.