Raising Afterbirth

Despite the dreaded occasion... today was a fairly decent day. I met with my doctor and discussed further medication options... it was decided it would be best to give the current dosage another month before raising it to the maximum dose. Afterwards, I went to Target to get some food for the cat and to browse the video games and movies... I need more of either as much as I need a hole in the head! That's the funny thing about addiction... we become addicted to the concept of addiction, not just the things we must have. Movies replace drugs and video games replace lust. After I was finished feeding the child inside, I went to another therapy session for the week. My therapist's hours of business end at 5pm, and today's appointment was scheduled at 5pm... he cared enough to stay after hours to see me for an hour. I can't imagine many therapists would do that for their patients... he is one in a million and one of the most trusted people in my fragile, uncertain world. We talked about several things that have been weighing heavy on my heart... even though I had no idea their impact was so severe. Usual topics that push people's uneasy emotions further into the crashing waves... Mother and Father. We laughed as I screamed out in my Mother's voice, "You're a special piece of fucking shit! And God has mighty plans for your sorry, pathetic, ugly, worthless ass!"... ah, such a loving and sheltered home. I told him that I really believed, "If someone would just take a chance on me, I know my life story would make a best-seller.". I didn't say it as a form of egotism or self-puffery, it was purely based off of the extreme conditions of my life, both my upbringing and my young adult life. He agreed with me and reminded me that no matter how many times he hears the sordid details of my childhood... he is shocked and horrified all over again. Both off my doctors claim that it is nothing short of a miracle and a testament of my courage, that I'm as functional and well adjusted as I am... I can't agree, those types of flattery are removed of all validity in my mind. I was born, I lived, and I press on... the rest is what it is, nothing more. Happy Birthday, you fucking piece of shit...

A Sheep Among Shepherds

After several hours of talking to the cat last night, it occurred to me that he is the only thing keeping me here... from following through with the drastic impulse to end this pathetic existence. It's the unknown that keeps me here and beckons the needed strength to press on... what would happen to him if I passed away? Who would look after him and give him the love he deserves... yes, I am capable of expressing love. At least what my limited understanding of what love is and how it works... it's the feeling of love from others that escapes me. Any positive feeling actually... those fuzzy forest creatures of fairy tales and rose petal kisses. I told my therapist today, that I lay in bed at night repeatedly begging God to kill me... then there would be no guilt, it wouldn't be my fault if no one cared for the cat. Wishful thinking... it would always be my fault, just as it has been for so long. How pathetic is that... living for a cat? Not a dream or purpose, nor friends or family... but a cat, just a cat. Tomorrow is my birthday, bring to a close a year since my would-be 10th anniversary of my death...after I full year I still feel cheated and in utter disarray. If you remember, a year ago I spoke about how I used to tell people I'd never see my 25th birthday... I worked very, very hard to see that come to fruition. Ultimately failing in the end... no surprise there, failure is the prize winning goose of my life. At any rate, last year I turned 35... thus marking 10 years ago that I should have been rotting in the earth. Instead, I rot above ground... still a sizable feast for the vermin and turning worms. A year has passed and I've yet to come to terms about still being alive... that's fucked up, really. I suppose most would be grateful and extremely appreciative to wake and walk upon the earth... pleading with their maker for another day to laugh, love, and remember. I know, poor fucking me... so pathetic, tired, and worthless. It's fucking hard living an empty life of regret and remorse... feeling nothing but hatred from everyone that surrounds me. My reflection is as hollow as the words shuffling off the people's mouths as they harken their love and compassion for this empty vessel... in the end, it just words. Meaningless, dirty, hollow words. It's the empty plate among the fatted feast... how would you feel if it were you sitting here? Could you? Can I? Why?

When Angels Die

It has come and within a few hours it will pass... this day, her day, is a rusted blade twisting in my stomach, digging deeper with each thrust and the bile consumes me from the inside. It is the worst day of the year... the day my heart dies just a little more. You've heard me mention other days that were extremely difficult for me, like March 15 for example, but this day... it's rated number one on the suffering menu. "So let me guess... it's about a woman, obviously since you said 'her day'. So what could this delicate flower have ever done to you that causes you so much suffering?". Well, yes, it is about a woman and no, it's not about what she did to me... not in the least. Today is her birthday, that's why it is such a painful reminder... not of her, but of me. My closest understanding and concept of love is being used when I say, I don't hate her at all... I love her. That in itself is a terribly confusing truth... the ins and outs of what love really is and the lines that separate the differences between such loves. This day should be about her and the wonderful person that she is... somewhere in my twisted mind this day became all about myself and the disgusting piece of filth and rotten flesh I've become. It's a reminder of the people I've hurt, especially her, both directly and indirectly in her name. I have been the root of much suffering to several people... both hurting her and hurting people with her. The sorrow is overwhelming and the knots in my gut feel as if they as going to bust. I lay in bed crying, begging for it to all go away... desperately clinging to the thought that I need to die to begin to make even the slightest bit of redemption. How could I have ever done those things? I remember each instance like it was only yesterday, and every time I look upon my face I want to smash the remaining life out of those hollow eyes... I need to rip it out, rip it out! I spoke to her today, as I always do, and she said, "I love you"... the words that melt away the hardest soul, only cause me incredible grief and sorrow. I don't understand it, I can't feel it, and I certainly can't accept it... what is love and why, oh why, would you waste it on me? After everything I've done... I can't be the only one that remembers, and I know the choices that were made impacted our lives forever. Perhaps it is just a common courtesy... words that fill the void with expected tones but have no real meaning to themselves. Either way, I fucking hate me... if I had any real courage at all, I would stick a dagger through my throat once and for all. I just want it to stop... for the love of God, make it fucking stop! All I can say is, I am sorry... so very and sincerely sorry. Fuck...

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.

A Place Called Home

The telephone rings... the rhythmic memories come flooding back with each shrill. It's not like most days... your cackle and sighs of yesterday, wrenching my stomach as the acid burns my throat. It's a reminder, under the guise of friendly, that tomorrow is my father's day of birth. Your contempt is clear and your memories askew... those darkened days still peek from under your skirt. I wonder how life must be, in a world that tailors the events of time to your liking... the best fit possible, no remorse or redemption needed. You remind me of the beatings and the hardships, but the blame is cast solely upon him... I remember a different story. Your crooked teeth gnashed in ire, with a smile of disdain, as he followed your every howl... the thrashings wouldn't cease until you were fattened on fear and quenched by blood. He was the instrument of destruction and the moppet of circumstance... you always stood front stage conducting the symphony of madness, pulling those strings tighter as the flesh ripped. Many times, has he come to me over the years, broken with guilt and sorrow for his deeds... but you, to this very day, deny any knowledge or involvement. Are the skies clear and blue... birds chirping as the creatures of the forest romp in delight? Perhaps I should book passage on the next marshmallow ferry... I could bring you a pound of flesh and a vial of tears in exchange for a moment of hospitality. As for tomorrow, I will heed your call... we will laugh and we will cry. I have an empty room down the hall... a similar chair faces the window, like the one before. I have saved it for you, Mother... no vengeance required, only memories are needed here.

Cranberry Ashes

I survived... the dreaded day has passed. For those feeling contempt for my extended time here, I hear your screams. The cat has also informed me that I have a full year to remedy the situation and leave this world... then all will be forgiven and forgotten. Mercy is indeed a favored spice in life. I am still struggling with this ordeal and increasingly becoming more and more confused... distant and bitter perhaps in some ways. It was a day, like any other day... I awoke to the screams from within, sat at my computer and began running away as fast as possible. Whether it be by reading online or pretending to be someone else in an Xbox 360 game... setting time aside to dull my senses with pain killers and anxiety medication. Laughter, an old distant friend, hasn't called for a visit in quite some time... my emotions have been wiped away into a cloud of dissipating chalk. Sorrow, however, has accompanied me with absolute devotion. I remember being a young teenager, like many I imagine, aching to have someone love them... to hold onto those feelings recklessly, awaiting that blessed moment. I no longer await that dream... I find myself mourning it's absence. As this illness further rots my mind, I realize now that is something I will never know. It sickens me greatly and angers me even more when I think of all of the people in this world that abuse, manipulate and take for granted something as special as love. Part of me has also become quite bitter at the youth of today, thinking they know what love is... just because someone told them it was so, so they could have a quick fuck, majestically labeled "making love". Of course, of course... didn't your mothers teach you that sex is love? How daft can you be? I love you... now, let's go fuck. The world should be neutered... all of the "pimps", "studs", "playas", "sluts" and "whores" should be chemically sterilized. Fucking idiots... I pity the next generation of people to populate this world. Love is the thing that pounds within your chest and every fiber of your soul... not a swelling in your crotch. When I think about experiencing love with another person, it isn't a sexual encounter... it's being able to sit beside someone comfortably and holding them in my arms or having them hold me. To be able to have someone touch me without feeling sick inside and jerking away from them. To be able to make eye contact and smile at each other. To laugh without feeling self conscious... the little things. The simple, yet marvelous moments in which time ceases to exist. Perhaps I'm the fucking idiot...

Pogo The Clown

Happy Birthday, John Wayne Gacy. The hypocrites all sing together, cursing you for your deeds and thoughts... murder is committed everyday in their hearts and minds. It is so easy for the sheep to stand together in judgment... we all have secrets under the floorboards.

John Wayne Gacy, Jr. (March 17, 1942 – May 10, 1994)

35th

Today is my brother's birthday... I haven't spoken with him in 8 years now and counting. When we were younger, we were the typical brothers... playing with each other all day and occasionally he would tease, isolate and torture me like older siblings do. I guess things went south around the time I started to become ill, around 15-16. We used to wrestle, like "the pros" from the days gone by. He would put me in the "Boston crab", "figure four", "the sleeper" and "scorpion death lock" and I would always use the same old submission tactic of the "scissor hold". One evening, as we wrestled, I began to "slip away" from reality and became extremely violent. We were raised in a VERY religious household... more of those nightmares another time... and when I became violent with him, he became extremely scared and started crying. He crawled away from me quoting scriptures, like we were drilled to do, and told me "I rebuke you, Satan, in the name of Jesus Christ!". I guess that was the trigger of my first of many psychotic breaks... I smiled at him and quoted a scripture back at him from Acts 19:15, "And the evil spirit answered and said, 'Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are you?' ". I remember crashing myself upon him and beginning to beat him to a pulp... the rest, I have no idea. I wasn't there. Needless to say, out relationship began to change... we no longer spent time together and grew apart. He continued to distance himself from the rest of the family, especially my Dad. Years later while at college, he had developed such a disdain for my Dad, that he had his name legally changed. He came to visit his friends back home once, during my hardcore drug abuse days, he came over to my house said hello and said we should visit later after I was done tripping. He never came back and I haven't seen him since. Eight years ago when I moved north, I had taken his car stereo and offered to buy it from him so I wrote him a letter and set up an arrangement. His reply was short and to the point... business as usual. After the deal was done, I guess so was our relationship. I miss those simple days of playing in the woods and playing Cowboys and Indians with my brother... I miss the laughter. I know he will never read this... more than likely no one will. But either way, I love you T.J. . Happy Birthday, Big Brother.