Family Matters

This season, I spared the public from another beloved Christmas tale of yesteryear... messages fill the fabric of time and the envelopes of the righteous. We separate ourselves, becoming the cats of ruined buildings... winding ourselves in piles of dirty laundry sniffing for that faded comfort. The dust has been shifted, thinking over events and memories of my life... particularly about my Mother and Great-Grandfather's stories of "When He Was A Little Girl". I can't recall the tales, but they always started with that phrase... to this day, I'm still uncertain. Other than a handful of dry roasted peanuts and curiously watching the people cry at his funeral and wondering why, I have nothing to remember him by. As for my Mother, I have plenty to remember... a crooked smile flashes across my face as I relive those "precious moments". My Mother is an extremely loving, giving, and thoughtful person... one side of the dysfunction straddling on candy cane crutches. Thinking of those good qualities, leaves a sour taste in my mouth. I suppose when someone has such an extreme goodness, there must be an equal amount of wickedness... those were the days of my childhood. She has changed a lot over the years, and mellowed out significantly... now only a part-time zealot and no longer threatens to have stuffed animals murder you in your sleep. The few people in my life that are familiar with my past and have actually met her, are always expecting to see a monster, rather than a smiling, fragile looking child in an elderly shell... I lived it, so you can imagine how I feel. Mindfuck is the only world fully capable of grasping the situation. Somethings never change and some tells of her dysfunction can clearly be seen, like her lack and disgust of physical affections and still talking through the mouths of the stuffed animals she carries around with her at all times... a land of the fence post people, rigid and content in the mud and mire. I don't hate my Mother and wish her no ill will. Those moments are past and even though I don't understand the reasoning behind the severe manipulation and abuse, I'm okay with it... to the best of abilities at least, for I am a broken toy. When I was a child, the accepted behavior was laughing away your pain. I learned at a young age that crying only meant more suffering and torment to come... I'll give you a reason to cry. Do you really to cry? Perhaps that's why I laugh and smile when I remember my childhood...