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 the news that lifted my spirits to new heights yesterday…what thoughts was she spending her night playing through her 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 many more facets to its shine that I had originally been prepared for, I guess.

Not-So-Spontaneous Combustion

 

Today I have felt like the biggest failure of a mother possible…because I’ve been reflecting on the continual tragedies that have plagued my experience of motherhood…

I have been going through the archives of my daughter and I’s life together (and apart) and trying in vain (the only thing that I know to do) to make sense of such senselessness; to reason with the unreasonable. I feel resigned to the permanence of desperation and devastation today – I haven’t felt resigned for a while – not to this reality, at least. Accepting a reality of the life and future existence belonging to somebody other than me doesn’t feel at all “right”.

I’m somebody’s Mom…

but I’m no longer a Mom to anyone…

so I walk around feeling half-ass finished with my tasks each and every day – I can’t braid my daughter’s hair or paint her nails; I can’t buy her clothes and shoes that fit her comfortably (with a little room to grow into); I can’t cook her a meal or go through her phone – I can’t be her Mom because she’s out there being something meaningless to some heartless, shameless and most likely dangerous grown man who is just as likely to end her life when he’s finished with her, as he is to drop her off naked and shivering in the rain at a public bus-stop, in a state of sleep-deprived confusion and drug-induced delirium.

These are the types of people with whom she repeatedly chooses to keep the company of – as opposed to a warm, safe, consistent and nurturing – even semi-normal – life with me.

So, I live in a mind-fuck paradox in the land of Cause and Effect – when it comes to my kid and my mental stability (or lack, thereof)…

When she is around and accounted for, I can move mountains if I need to; when Boo is safe (no matter how pissed off she may be about having to be), I am able to be more productive and to maintain momentum like I swallowed a bottle Dexedrine, just begging someone to step up and take a shot at the Title, to try and slow me down.

But when Boo is missing; when my heart is out there walking around outside of my body in places unacceptable to me, I am virtually paralyzed and non-functional in general. It is impossible for me to carry on with day to day shit like everything’s ok, when it’s about as far from ok as it could fucking be… I’m a train wreck – no clarity, no security, no direction – on the verge of not-so-spontaneous combustion.

 

 

Rips, Tears and Lullabies

Look at us, there, sitting pretty – all smiles;

photo after photo, flipping through untruth;

the blurry colors in the background,

have fuzzed the edges around me and you.

So much time tossed away seeking the simple;

something I shouldn’t have to choke free from you;

no matter what I want to believe or deny –

I can’t ignore the stabbing in my womb.

You’ve made your decisions, just like I made my own;

Back when life was a highway and my lead foot was down,

When the words between your mouth and mine

might have held meaning as they hung around.

Believe me when I howl at the waxen, pock-marked Lady –

That my intentions only run pure for yours,

That the scars on my skin can only barely begin

To ever describe the horrors.

I’m following tiny footprints down the spiral towards the drain;

In such a disillusioned, unwilling mind frame,

Piles and piles of lies and goodbyes, rips and tears and lullabies;

My teardrops obscure my perceptions abroad,

In a room full of people who only seem to smile or nod;

The fakeness: tangible, as the bills in a fold,

Tucked away, out of sight in a tomb of fool’s gold.