Unchained And Selective

The long awaited day came and passed... I made it till Tuesday and tomorrow I get to visit with my therapist again. With any luck, I'll be able to squeeze in a visit on Friday as well... it may seem like a lot, but it really isn't. If my insurance would pay for it, I would go see him everyday... it forces me to get out of bed and it's the only place I have that makes me feel 100% completely safe. No need listening at the doorways or checking for explosions... I trust him completely and he really understands and tries very hard to help me. I've told him just about everything about my life... some really fucking sick shit, and never once has he made me feel bad about it. No judgement, no guilt, no shame... just comfort, support, and compassion. I do understand one thing though, he isn't my friend... not because of any lack of effort or capabilities, but because he has a different role in my life. It's a professional relationship, he can't get attached to patients in that manner... it would make life too difficult. I'm not hurt by this, it's just the way it is.

As Winona asked, some of you may be wondering what my therapist had to say about my photo project idea... it was quite a lengthy discussion with both pros and cons. The first thing he asked me was the reasoning and inspiration behind the project. I told him that I had been visiting the blog of some brave women that are going through some similar issues... dealing with abuse, incest, rape, self hated, and guilt. I told him that they take pictures of themselves and post them every so often as a means of therapy, I am guessing... to be honest, I don't know the specifics, it's just my impression of what's happening. If anyone is interested in visiting their blog, I will gladly leave a link at the end of this post... they are strong and brave for what they are doing. Anyway, it kind of inspired me to take pictures of myself, thus came the 365 project idea on Flickr... a meeting of the minds, if you will. One thing that concerned him, was the same issue that Winona mentioned... the intensity of the project and how I could possibly punish myself, with the help of the choir and Richard, if I failed to complete it. It wasn't said out of lack of belief or support, it's a well known part of my psychology... I'm big on self crucifixion and conflagration. It's my mother's milk. The other concern was my expectations... what was I hoping to achieve from this project? He said, to him it appeared that it was a mission of validation... a way to tell myself and others, "Hey, I'm fucked up and ill... but I am still a person. I matter. I am here.". It was very interesting to hear him say this, because honestly I hadn't thought of it that way... but it does make sense. I told him all I was looking for really was a way to heal and close this seeping wound I never fully accepted was a huge part of my life. If anything, I am worried about what people might say to me in the comments... making fun of my illness and dis-shoveled appearance. He thought perhaps that if people did say something hurtful, that it would be another chance to grow and overcome their cruelty... not a reason to be disheartened about myself or my healing process. True, there are many aspects of this project that will be difficult... but I think the reward of knowing I did it would be worth the risks. All in all, he was very supportive and encouraging for me to go through with it... there is still much debate and chatter among the others on the inside, but I am getting close to my decision. We will take about it more and try to decide in tomorrow's session. Ultimately, it's my call and I know the people that really matter in my life will understand and support it... but it is still scary, unfamiliar, and extremely stressful. The waiting and not knowing... what will come and where have I been.

Here's the link, as promised: Taking Back Everything

Tipping The Scales

Today is Monday... the day before my Mother, birthed by my Father. In preparation for tomorrow's therapy and trying to get back on track with my bathing schedule, I dug deep and scrapped myself out of bed and into the tub... it is hard and stressful, but bathing is a special time for me. Bathing is the key word, I don't take showers because they are wasteful and don't feel comforting... nothing is better than a hot, steaming bath. I find the water extremely soothing... words cannot begin to describe the feeling of being covered completely with water. On a side note, most media like television shows and movies about schizophrenics are completely full of shit... portraying us to the world as absolute monsters and serial killers. Anyway, there is one movie that has something actually correct about us, schizophrenics, in a small part of the film. It is in The Cell... there is a part where the detective says that schizophrenics are often comforted by water- this is very, very true. The rest is bullshit, but oh well. Moving on. Why are baths so special to me, you might be asking? Well, I will tell you. For one reason, it's my time to unwind and soak, smoke a cigar without upsetting anyone and just let myself float away into the abyss. I also have this ritual I call, my "Love Time"... no, it's not based on masturbation. I masturbate in the grocery store between the cracker aisle and the pet food aisle... like any respectable person! "Love Time" is when I take my scrubby thing and rub it with a bar of soap to get it nice and covered. Then I massage the suds out of the scrubby and back into it, over and over, until the suds became soft as silk... with the air particles so thinned out, that it feels softer than anything in this world. Then I place the suds on my chest and rub them over my body and hold myself in a tight embrace... it is the most amazing feeling I have ever experienced. I call it "Love Time", because I imagine that's what love would feel like... indescribable. Okay, that's enough intimate information for now... moving on now. Well, tonight's bath was less than what I needed it to be... someone in the house just ruined it for me. But it got me thinking. Usually, hope is the thing that fuels people with the strength to continue when life becomes too difficult. For me however, it's not hope that has helped me through this particular rough patch... it's hate. I've felt such intense hatred in my life that if you were to give it an object of tangibility, it would be the blackest, rotten bile one has ever seen... it is nothing compared to the feelings I've had lately. In fact, this hatred is so intense, I dare say there aren't words strong or vile enough to illustrate my true feelings... to stab this person in the face 57 times wouldn't even scratch the surface. I loathe them, utterly and completely... everyday my hate fuels me to press on. I guess I should be grateful to be so lucky? Least I have something driving me. I wonder how I will survive when this person finally moves out of my home... what will be my inspiration if the hate goes with them?

Taking Chances

My therapist and I haven't gotten back together this week... he has taken ill, so I won't be back there until Tuesday. This means I haven't had a chance to talk to him about my potential experiment or my ongoing experiments. The potential one is the photo project and the ongoing experiments are my pathetic attempts at making friends and understanding relationships. I use the word pathetic because the results have been less than desirable... usually the attempts are returned by severe cruelty and verbal bashings lined with harsh accusations. However there has been a minor amount of progress... out of the last 4 people I have written in an attempt to foster some type of friendship, 3 have flat out ignored me and only 1 has openly rejected me. The progress is, none of them have been directly cruel... indirectly however, I am a pin cushion. I don't think people make the connection... it's like they think so little of others or they are just completely daft. Let me fill in the gasps for sleeping lemmings. People of the world: When you ignore someone and project that their existence is limited by your recognition, it hurts... it fucking hurts to be ignored, you fucking assholes! Okay, that helped me feel a little better. Back to the point, not only does it hurt... but it's just fucking rude. It's good to know the Christian community is still very much sensitive to people and doing the right thing... I think it was in one of Jesus's sermons to be diligent and kick people when they are down and to walk in self righteousness. And God said, "Cast those insignificant, mentally ill, pieces of shit to the side... the aren't worth loving!". Can I get an amen?

I'm not certain if anyone takes the time to read through the comments other people leave, but if you do... you may have a question about another social experiment of mine. As you all know, the name Alabaster Frank is a pseudonym... my true identity has been hidden in attempts to protect myself and certain people in my life. A few weeks ago, I thought I would take a chance and invite someone who knows me in real life to read along and learn some more about myself and my illness. It was a new social experiment to try opening myself to people I've know for a long time and try to share some things about myself and my journey and see if I could better understand relationships. It was also a hope of mine that it would be another avenue of redemption... I'm sure it sounds a little odd, but I thought it was a good idea. It turns out to have been fruitful. If you've been reading along, this person goes by the name of Winona... she has been posting quite a few comments lately and in one of the most recent ones, I explained that she knew me before I was Alabaster Frank. I just wanted to share this little bit of information with you all in case some of you were confused by the matter. I am glad I took the chance in sharing that part of myself openly with someone from my past... I've enjoyed the communication and it has been a different type of experience for me. Different in the sense of just sharing my story with a host of strangers and have nothing invested or emotional attachment. I'm not ready to share this openly with more people from my life, and honestly, I don't know if I ever will... but for now, I feel good about the small steps I've taken. As for approaching random people and asking them if they want to be friends or pen-pals... well, I don't know how much more of that I can take. Just because I have a hard time understanding and feeling emotions from people doesn't mean I'm invincible and my feelings don't get hurt... I'm highly sensitive and quite capable of having my heart trampled upon.

The Hunger

What drives us in those moments, the place where reasoning is replaced with insatiable hunger. The thirst for screams and bloodshed, the loss of humanity and innocence... what makes terror and heartache such workable lubrication. It's inside us, another life feasting own it's own design and purpose... lurking in the shadows of our souls, waiting for the moment of release. It takes what was once taken, bringing back within... never to be satisfied, only to be birthed again. To share the pain no words could mend, to rip another open from end to end... to gift the voice with an echo, that was once drowned in the shallow. What was mine, is now yours... soon to be mine again. But this time, this time... you'll have your own mouth to feed.

Goodbye Horses

The depression seems to be worsening... infecting my sleep with images I'd rather avoid and see replaced with the nightmares. I've been thinking a lot about the verbal abuse I suffered as a child... wondering what type of person I would be if it had never happened. It's not some infected swell of bitterness swarming inside, I am truly past the anger phase... it's more like the realization that this sucking chest wound effects me deeper than I'd thought before. I suppose in a lot of ways, the verbal abuse cut deeper than the routine beatings, the social isolation, the torture and mind games, the sexual molestation, incest and rape... all of those things were hard, but in some ways not so infecting. Events came, we experienced them, they ended, and we've moved on... the same can't be said about being degraded everyday, all day, for many, many years. The more I think about it, I really think this idea about taking the daily photos could be healing... the fear encases my chest and the air thickens like bitter, pasty saliva. What if I can't handle this project? Would the end result only make things worse for me... knowing I've failed at yet another thing in my life? Would I find the courage to stomach the mocking and hurtful comments from the people that witnessed this spectacle... witnessing my disarray, lack of hygiene, and unkempt appearance? That is amusing... how someone with no self-esteem can still suffer from vanity. Life is rich. At my next therapy appointment, we will bring up this idea an see what he has to offer in opinion and advice. Richard says no, but he delights in the idea of failure. Diana is in support of the idea and wants to see some closure. The Choir is split... some just want to be left alone, others are in absolute refusal, some think it's a waste of resources and the time should be spent entertaining themselves, and the rest think it is acceptable. I wish my opinion had some merit in this discussion, I remember a simpler time when my voice had meaning... I suppose it's been so long now, that I forgot the sound of my own voice and the weight it carried. A simpler time, when no meant no and yes meant yes. It's beginning to weigh me down, all of the opinions and rules... the fear that chokes me and the dangling carrot of freedom. There is something inside that painted, black box that rests in the corner... something deeper than remembering, something stronger than fear, some purpose, a beacon of time, a vigil. Where have the horses gone, the hills, and children... the table was set, with dirty plates, and soiled panties as napkins.

Greasing The Gears

Disclaimer: The words written within this blog may be offensive, brutally honest, violently blunt, and extremely graphic. Discretion is advised.

I thought perhaps it would be a good idea to have that written somewhere in here... no need to shock someone without fair warning. Moving on. I finally visited with my therapist today... it felt good to return to my safe place once again. I've been thinking about a way to help heal some of the damage that abuse can inflict on someone... it might prove to be fruitful, so it's worth a shot. I'm unsure if I'm ready for the task, but I am seriously thinking it over... the committee will be briefed and impart the final decision in due time. As I had mentioned in a previous comment, the verbal abuse I suffered as a child cut my soul deep... so deep in fact, that I still shudder at the thought of looking in the mirror or having my picture taken. I thought that one way to perhaps better myself and heal some of those old wounds would be a photo project. Everyday, I'd find a time to set aside to take a picture of myself and post it in my Flickr account... a dual project- a 365 project and a way to heal. The idea is frightful, but it may be a good for me... worst case scenario, I flood the internet with disgusting images. If it's something that I feel like I'm capable of attempting, I will post a link to my Flickr account so that perhaps some may follow along, if they so desire. I also changed my settings so that people could post comments more freely, so I would like to encourage all of you to come on by and say hello or share your thoughts and feelings. You have the right to speak freely and ask questions... I encourage you all to give it some thought.

The Four, And Then Me

"The Four, And Then Me"

It was cold... the earth, my knees, the way the glares iced over till Thursday morn.
It was hot... the juices, the blood, the thrusts that cleaved and cauterized my flesh.
It was love... the touch, the licks, the mouth inhaling your sweat, taste, and urine.
It was hate... the orgasm, the dismissal, the reflections peering back in the mirror.

I remember... each tuft of matted hair and the way your body shook violently about.
I remember... people watching in awe as the clothing was torn from my young body.
I remember... needles sticking in my thighs and how my tears tasted on cold vinyl.
I remember... seeing the blood running through my fingers and begging you'd stop.
I remember... knotted sheets, Vaseline vapor, and the way I fell deep inside of you.
I remember... every fold, every mound, every crease, every taste, every pubic hair.

Can we give enough, to make it stop... can we bleed enough, up until the last drop?


19-03-12

Call Me, In The Morning

We are relieved this week is finally over...it has been an utter nightmare, continuously gnawing at my last strand of sanity. As I've stated many times before, routine is very important to me... to any schizophrenic actually. My therapist has been out of town for over a week... on vacation with his family, which he is certainly entitled to be doing. Keeping that in mind has been very important... otherwise the choir we take hold and convince me that I've been betrayed and abandoned. Seeing my therapist is a wonderful thing for me... having the ability to vent, work on issues, socialize, laugh, and it's the only place I feel 100% safe. It took a lot of work to get to that point, we've seeing each other 3 times a week for about 5 years now. He's been gone before and usually it worked itself out and the time flew instantly by... like time does usually for me. But this time it was different, it rattled every structure I've been holding on desperately to for awhile now... I didn't brush my teeth, or floss, or even bathe at the scheduled time like I've worked so hard on implementing. I couldn't sleep, I didn't get out of bed most days, and didn't eat till my body was crashing from low blood sugar and I was getting sick. It's amazing to me how much of an impact this man has on my life. Putting aside the fact that he is a man... due to my abuse and illness I don't trust men at all. I'm very afraid of men in general and can't seem to bond with them because we share nothing in common... the mind of a male schizophrenic functions chemically like the mind of a healthy female. If you think about it, in a way that makes me a homosexual and the women of my life lesbians... comical side note, I was actually married to a lesbian for a few years. No shit. This week holds promise... tomorrow I get to go see my general physician, the following day I see my therapist again, I have some cigars coming in the mail, and two video games coming as well. The games are Mass Effect 3 and The Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind GOTY Edition. Now if I can get a hold on Richard, Diana, and The Choir and keep them in check, it should be smooth sailing... event wise that is of course. There is always something interesting and stressful swarming around on the inside, but those moments have to be taken one step at a time... one line stands before the hushed crowd.

Inbetween The Lines

Context. Tonight I've chosen to retouch on my previous entry a little bit... here, there, and everywhere. We thought it might be helpful to press pause and explain a few things... perhaps beneficial, then again, it could be meaningless dribble infecting the ears of those already in the loop. In here, my mind and this blog, things can come across very harsh... at times very vague in their true meaning, but also very descriptive and colorful. At times, some of the words I choose can be very intense and perhaps offensive to some of the readers... comments about incest, abuse, addiction, cannibalism, and rape. Why do I choose to use such imagery... is it purely for a shock value? No. These images and subjects are powerful... that's the whole point. Have you ever raped someone or perhaps been raped yourself? Think about it... either offense will change your life forever. These words have value and the ability to strike someone at their core... ripping through their defenses and rattling their soul in unspeakable ways. In here, I discuss things that are not only powerful and thought provoking, but also things about myself and my experiences... in a pursuit of redemption and healing. I'm not openly confessing to anything, for several reasons obviously, but by laying the pieces out there and leaving the conclusion to you, the readers... it helps me just the same, theoretically that is, as if it was an open confession. So I'm not about to bluntly state that I've, in fact, raped or eaten a person for example, but I'm not going to hide the things that have been done to me. Yes, I've been raped and tortured by someone that had power and authority over me... so I have a reason behind using such imagery. It's real and it's raw... words are powerful, like actions and experiences.

Some might be wondering why I chose death as the one thing I would choose to do if I could do anything without cost... what does death cost? Is it just the financial burden it places on those after one dies or is it about the cost of the unsettled emotions among friends and family? Neither actually. I have a firm belief that life here on this plane is filled with purpose. We are here to learn and grow as spiritual beings, despite what some believe. No, I'm not talking about church and Jesus and the religious bullshit that is pumped into people's heads... I am speaking about spiritual growth, which has nothing to do with religion. Religion was made by man as a means to control other men with fear and guilt... don't do this and that or God is gonna fucking spank you and throw you into a lake of fire for all eternity. Seeing how the point of life is to learn and grow, there is also a cost to killing yourself before your time to leave this place. The cost is coming back to relearn those lessons that you tried to skip... there are no shortcuts in life, all things are earned. So why would I kill myself to release all this pain, misery, guilt, remorse, and suffering if I'm just going to come right back in another life to relive all this shit again until I learn what I'm supposed to learn? It's a very complex thought of life... the very thing I could be here to learn, is how to discover closure and growth from all of these terrible experiences. Or perhaps it's a dharmic life, where these experiences of mine are supposed to teach someone else or offer them some type of healing. Either way, it's best to finish the course and dig deep for the strength and courage to fight on and on... death will come at it's time and there is no point in meeting it sooner. If I could do anything, without cost or repercussion, it would be to die... with no fear of coming back to relive this nightmare I've been fighting through for so many years. I could skip it, put it all behind me and move on the the next lessons of life. It's a good choice, but merely a fantasy... there is always a price. What are you willing to pay?

Down From The Mountain

It is difficult, this path, the effort and reaching out to maintain this limited grip and understanding of emotions... relationships, the taxing effect of withdrawal and rejection. The air is thick with irony, stale clouds and window cleaners... great effort is taken to heed those words, brush it aside, for it truly isn't personal. I find great humor in the fact that I'm extremely fragile emotionally and quite sensitive to rejection... seeing how I have such issues with understanding emotions and knowing how to process these vibrations. Open the box and utilize those tools from childhood... the protection and sanctuary of laughter. However difficult, this is necessary... my therapist tells me the only way to understand people and emotion is to expose myself to such. Raw, quivering, relentless... the feast.

One thought has been running through my mind this past week... repeatedly drilled through my mind and echoing from within my core. It's a simple question, but the answers that could be given are far from easily deduced. If you could do ANYTHING, anything at all, and get away with it without any repercussions whatsoever... what would you do? It could be good or bad, but I believe that most would focus on something bad seeing how the cost is always so much more severe. Think about it. Really dig deep and ask yourself, what would you do? Win the lottery... tax free? Become immortal? Have some superpower be gifted upon you? Create world peace? Kill someone... your spouse perhaps? Abduct, torture, rape, and consume someone piece by bloody, juicy piece? Above good or evil, without cost... no questions asked, no judgement. Nothing. To any degree thinkable... even bringing forth the apocalypse, if you so desired. Despite the many choices and possible outcomes, the choice for me was very clear... each and every time I was asked this question, the answer was always the same. If I could do anything, absolutely anything, without any cost, worry, or repercussions... what would it be? Care to take a guess... have a look deep inside the muddled mind and perhaps even yourself? In all honesty, it would simply be this... I would die.

Et Tu, Mr. Snuffleupagus?

It's that time of year again... a day which I dread and the occasion it shadows rips through my gut with a fierce, licentious maw. The problem is people, certain people that elude my understanding... they have a place in my life, but the edges are loose and unfitting. Turning, turning, turning... we mash and gnash, but it never feels right. The boundaries are greyed and restraint is required with extreme diligence to steady the murky waters... there are halves and wholes, smiles and smirks. The gates hold back the flood of inappropriateness from spewing upon the fresh linens... the blood still pumps and the levee swells, begging for thrusting release. The familiar family card games... seated at the table, the top card is flipped. Love. When a kiss becomes passionate and embrace becomes a caress, they must pass the inspector's watchful eye... reduce, revalue, restraint. Love. It's the mother that tucks her son into bed with the loving warmth of her eye... or the mother that lays with him warming the bed with her breasts and thighs. The father the watches over his sleeping daughter with virtue and honor... or the father inhaling her dirty delicates in a masturbatory fever. Love. The boundaries it provides and the ones it easily allows to be crossed... the id and the ego dancing in delight, sweating with the night. The embrace that is desired, yet resented, emerges from the wings of wait... one, two, three, release. Did I wet myself, or did I taint you as well? We'd rather not know, pretending the music never stopped. A room full of smiles, filled with the devil's child... combing the mane, rescinding the wild. It's not bound in blood, nor is the quelling inspired by such... it's the thought, the look, the place, the touch.

Bioware, You Magnificent Bastards

As some of you know, I'm a huge video game geek... massive and hopeless. This year is a big year for the gaming industry with several long anticipated titles being released. One of these titles is Mass Effect 3... which I'm eagerly awaiting to reach my doorstep. I picked up the strategy guide today from the store to have a look at the game and the exciting details within... yes, I'm one of those people- book people. A lot of gamers think it is "cheating" to buy the books and somewhat frivolous seeing how someone out there will post a comprehensive wiki within a matter of days for free on the internet. I know, I know. But I enjoy having the books, holding them, and collecting them...I don't use them while I'm playing, it's more of a tool if I get stuck and something to admire while I am waiting to play the game. It's a harmless obsession and collection, so shut the fuck up and let me have this little piece of paradise. Back to the point, yeah for Mass Effect 3! The game look incredibly beautiful and masterfully put together...I'm certain the story will be just as gripping as Mass Effect and will have me crying like a baby again at the conclusion. One of the best aspects of this title is the continuing character option... your character appearance, story choices, and relationships import throughout all three of the titles. Masterfully done, Bioware. Procuring this game hasn't been without a series of struggles... which leads me to my next segment of conversation. I pre-ordered the game so I could have the Deluxe Collector Edition, two copies actually so I could own one and sell the other for twice my initial investment after a little bit of time. So about three weeks before release, I set out on a mission to place my order... unfortunately, by this time everywhere was already sold out of the Collector's Edition. I managed to find a company that had some still available for purchase and quickly placed my order. There used to be a chain of stores called Hastings, which has recently been closing down their stores and operating mainly online as www.gohastings.com. They were going to be my video game Savior in this particular crisis... or so we thought. Like I said, I placed my order and received a conformation number for my order...after a few hours of waiting for an email conformation / receipt, I decided to call the company to investigate this problem in communication. After 20 mins of being on hold and trying to locate a living person in this underground, basement operation, I talked to a nice lady who confirmed my order. Over the next few weeks I awaited the upcoming release... March 6, 2012 came and passed with still no word from Hastings, no email or shipment. So, I quelled the rage within and decided to call the company on the 12th of March... only to discover they oversold their allotted amount of Collector's Editions and my order was cancelled. I did however finally receive an email about my order being canceled the following day... no apology or compensation for this huge oversight. You worthless, fucking piece of mutilated cat shit! Fuck you Hastings, you'll never get a fucking dime from me in the future... rot in fucking hell! So after dwelling on the idea of drinking a bottle of bleach, I collected myself enough to hunt down another copy of the Collector's Edition. I did find several copies for sale on the internet for as much as $350.00... ouch! Where is my fucking lube? Anyway, I finally found a copy on www.half.com for $112.00, which is almost what I originally paid for two copies from Hastings. So I had to settle for only one copy, which I intend on keeping and never playing so I can re-sell it in a years time for twice that amount. So I'm going to wait for the regular edition to come down in price sometime around the summer so I can purchase and play it then. Thank you again, Hastings... fucking assholes. I was a little pissed off at Bioware during this fiasco for only making such a small amount of the Collector's Editions being made available... until I read a comment from them warning people around October of 2011 to place their pre-orders as soon as possible or they will miss out. You're forgiven Bioware, oh how I love you!

12,000 MG Later

I wanted you to know... the wound runs deep. Everything on the inside is broken, bruised and swollen... I'm not here anymore, just a shell of what was and should have been. The winds collapse the memories of dust... leaving behind the remnants of scar tissue and burnt photographs. Though the embers have aged a bitter cold, they burn nonetheless... stinging to my very core, the brittle and savage embrace. Tears have become the currency in which we pay... despair paved with sorrow lines the halls of wealthy men and children, while the women cradle the stillborn dreams and desires. I remember the strings and rhythm, nestled against my fingertips... how the tears rolled down into my mouth, choking on their salty, stale lament. Why, is the only thought that fills and escapes my mouth... why did I choose this? Why... why did we birth this existence, this memory? The melody shrieks out of time, singing all on it's own... this place, called home.

Give In And We'll Do The Rest

Get out, get out, get out! These are the words I'm longing to speak forth... it builds inside me, swelling more with each passing moment. For years now I've suffered from night terrors as a side effect from the habitual narcotic use... add a pinch of mental illness and gently fold in some trauma. They usually range from my deeds and shortcomings and some of the things I've seen and experienced through this vicious whirl of life. Lately, they've been focused on biting and ripping the throats out of people that cause me a significant amount of stress... it's a limited list, and we're no longer accepting applications. Please speak to Management, Thank You. I'm not opposed to this one particular person suffering a horrible and extremely violent demise... actually, the thought makes my saliva run thick and the hairs stand on the back of my neck. It's the thought of me loosing control that is upsetting... one foot in front of the other. Once upon a time, I had some issues with controlling my anger... we aren't talking about fits and temper tantrums either. More along the lines of wrapping wire around someone's neck and telling them to say goodbye to all they love and hold precious in this world... at any rate, I had some issues. After much hard work and learning to identify the symptoms of me "checking out", I have this part of myself well under control... most of the time. When I'm confronted with strong emotions whether from myself or the people around me, my mind doesn't know how to process and analyze them properly. The building vibrations shake so violently inside, that I want to lash out and inflict serious harm to people... this isn't an option, so it must be kept in order. Back to my original point, the nightmares are upsetting because I can't lose control of myself and give in to those urges... I just can't. I don't know how or when I will be able to develop the courage to dismiss this person from my life... I can only pray that they die miserably or wind up in prison before I end up losing it or taking my own life. It sounds dramatic, I know. But imagine having to constantly watch out for someone trying to steal your belongings, invade your extremely limited privacy, having everything that is of value locked up behind several tamper proof locks, constantly on the lookout that no illegal substances are brought into the home, and finally, constantly worrying about upsetting the sociopath that has already made several threats against you. Yup, that's just a little more understandable... it's no wonder I'm in therapy three times a week.

Little Motel

The choir sings a familiar chorus, after days of nothing, forcing me out of shelter running for some sanity. It's not purely their fault, after all... they sing because that's their job, it's their motivation that has become so troublesome. We walk simply to move about from one place to another, but what is the force that drives us to move? A destination, person, or goal...  these are the forces beckoning each step further, one before the other, on and on. Like us, the choir sings for a reason, a purpose... though they delight in the torment, that isn't enough to inspire such rhythm and debauchery. We leave for some cold night air and the brisk influence of outside influences and stimulation... those men and women playing their childish games and Sunday morning mannerisms. The three wise men remained at home to finish their supper and enjoy the aria's finale... a moment of disassociation and external supplication. Time passed and we we're called home by the need of familiarity... greeted by interlopers as I crossed the front door. There is no rest or reset from that which haunts me... the chorus rings louder and stronger, fueled by the agonizing remnants of my life. We are not he and never once could have been such... for she can't remain inside the window sill for much longer. It is ours and theirs... nothing is shared, but merely taken. The takers feed... they laugh as we wither inside.

Is It You Or Me?

The sun has set on what was today, becoming yesterday as we step forward to tomorrow... again, the day known as today. We've come no closer and traveled no further in the attempts to become more human... as it were. With a heavy spirit, I set down this bag of stone... in a world, both time and place, neither shelter nor home. The walls tremble and secrete ire, as the foundation shifts in agony... queasy from the twitching limbs, feeble now in it's security. It grows dark... and darker still. The means are limited and fading... yet the cruelty persists without ending. We are here and they are there, with those few far and between... the silence screams, such bellowing anguish. Why have I forsaken me? I've grown weary from the retching and heaving of ash... footholds crumbled under expectations, though fair warning was advised. Again with the blind eyes... both mine in preparation and those glaring inside from the cold. Why couldn't we see... or was it that we just wouldn't? A call on deaf ears, is a call nonetheless...if we bleed more, then they may open.