What Remains To Be Found...

For those readers who've been following my writings for awhile now, you've seen me at various stages in my life and journey... arguably at my worst and at my best, functional and completely non-functional. There has been sways and spikes, crisis and rejuvenation, redemption and reprisal... a virtual cornucopia of emotions and thought. Recently, things have been much worse and I have found myself at the darkest depths of my life... although I moved across the country to better my life, ironically, sorrow and addiction have been my only lasting companions. On Saturday, unable to deal with the loss of the single most important thing in my life, I tried once again, to leave this world behind... my attempts were in vain, and as you can clearly see by this entry, unsuccessful. I couldn't bear the burden of this relentless sorrow any longer, so the daily routine of running, escape, and self-medication increased significantly... instead of stopping once I had obtained the desirable level of intoxication, I continued consuming more and more Morphine. With blurred vision and over whelming euphoria consuming the last fibers of my consciousness, choking on my own saliva because I was too high and detached to even swallow, I continued chasing that white rabbit until my body collapsed. This should have been the final stand, my desistance, the end complete... I "awoke" quite sometime later, drenched in sweat, saliva, and piss, muddled and unable to form rational thought. After yet another failed attempt at leaving this place behind, I was convinced God is a fucking sadist and he truly just wants me to continue suffering for my transgressions and failures.Days later, I still don't know how to feel about it, other than the fact that I'm fucking pissed off for having wasted so much Morphine... that was enough to keep me "stratosphere" for a week. The escape was temporary in the end, and here I find myself still unable to bear these feelings of loss and sorrow... my heart is broken beyond all repair and my desire and will are completely tapped and exhausted. Lost in the "what if's..." and "should have's...", I must face each day alone and hopeless of reunion... each breath is powdered glass and my eyes have been cried dry.

This confession speaks volumes about myself... my weakness, pathetic and hopeless nature, my addiction, and self-worth. But I'm not the only one in the spot light... now you stand center stage and it's your reflection that is captive. Depending on your reaction and thoughts, you're one of three types of individual:

- If you're filled with compassion and you're thinking to yourself, "Damn, Alabaster Frank... I love you and I'm here for you always, but I really think you need to get some type of help.", I want you to know that I appreciate your concern, compassion, empathy, and kindness. However, ironically, I am already enrolled in a Crisis Stabilization Program and I have people coming over to my house every day to make sure I am safe and getting the help that I need. The problem is that I feel dead inside and there is no remedy for that... when that tree burned down, it took away everything that I am or could ever possibly become. It was a moment of complete and absolute loss that turned my entire world upside-down and inside-out. Where do you go from here? How do you get there... or find the desire to even care?

-If you're filled with anger and you're thinking to yourself, "Shut the fuck up already! If you want to die so fucking bad, I'll fucking do it for you, you worthless, stupid, fat, fucking piece of shit!"... ah, honesty, how refreshing. I'll tell you what... send me a message, and I'll give you my address and you can come over here and do it for me, OK?

-And finally, if you're filled with mockery and lack any real courage of your own, because you're one of those people that masturbates to videos on YouTube of bullying victims crying their eyes out and self harm photographs, and you're thinking to yourself, "Ha ha, you're such a loser! I think this is so funny... you can't even kill yourself right because you're so stupid and pathetic!. Quit crying about it and try it again, so I can laugh at you failing yet again!". Sadly, if this is how you truly feel, I suppose you're even more pathetic than I am. Obviously you're so lost and soulless that you'll scour the Internet, searching and reading the blog's of people whom are truly suffering, just as a means of entertainment and escape from your own worthless and pathetic existence. I'll tell you what... I'll offer you the same courtesy as the person before you. Send me a message, and I'll give you my address... except this time, the end result will be far different, because you're clearly a spineless individual. So, this is how it will be. You come over to my house and I will beat you to death with my dick and we'll record it and post it on the Internet for other mindless fucking trolls, like yourself, so they can masturbate to your suffering for a change? How does that sound, punk-ass motherfucker? Fuck you. That's right... Fuck You!

Okay, I know that was a little on the intense side, but I just can't stand people that get off on the suffering of others and view their pain as a type of entertainment... at least serial killers have the conviction to cause that other person's suffering before they get off, ya know? It's all about manners. So there we have it... it's no secret what type of person I am or the lives I have lived. I've always been very forthcoming in sharing the pieces of my life and story with all of you. The real question is, what type of person are you? Do you have a moral compass and the power of conviction? Do you have a heart and the humanity to use it? There are some readers who have been very kind to me over the years and I want you to know that I appreciate each and every one of you. I don't know if I can learn how to be happy and healthy... I don't know if I can ever truly heal. But it is my hope that one day, I'll be able to see that I'm not alone in this void... that one day I can learn how to use my heart, just like some of you have used yours in kindness towards me.Thank you, my friends... thank you for listening and sharing this time together.

Backyard Mechanic

It doesn't matter how many different vehicles you bring over to jump start your car... it will never work. Your car will not start. It's not the battery... it's your starter. It has a faulty solenoid. Take a flat-head screwdriver and bypass the solenoid by touching the two terminal posts... your car will start, I assure you. After conformation, remove your starter and replace the solenoid... you'll be back on the road in no time. I apologize for watching you from my window for the past few days... I could have helped you and saved you much time and effort. I just couldn't. I couldn't stand the thought of talking with someone new. I couldn't break the chains of insecurity and anxiety. All I could do was watch and hope you'd find the answers you were seeking. The fear is crippling... much like your solenoid.

The Teeth That Cling

Okay, so here it is... a long time coming. Many of you might be curious about the reference to one of my traumatic incidents, I suffered as a child... the remarks of rape, how tears tasted on cold vinyl, and the dentist. Take a seat, raise your feet, and hear my lullaby cry.

When I was a young child, my parents took my to the dentist, just as every parent does... we'd suffer the trauma to win a prize at the end of visit. A new plastic toy from the goody box... or an aftertaste, not so minty fresh. The dentist office we went to had only one room for cleaning / oral surgeries... it was a large room with chairs lining three sides of the adjoining walls. The other empty wall had the treasure chest and a little play table. The waiting room was separate and the parents would be forced to wait outside and read the old, crusty pages of last months magazines. We had been going to the same dentist for a long time, longer than I could remember... but long enough to have that treasure chest burned into my childish mind. On one visit, my parents were informed that I needed some oral surgery... the gum line on my lower, two front teeth was receding do to a birth defect. It was a relative simple surgery, they would remove some gum tissue from the roof of my mouth and graft it on to my lower gum line... giving me the needed support and protection for those new teeth. I remember being nervous, like any child would be... even though we always got a toy for behaving, it was still an unpleasant visit. The day arrived, my father took me to the dentist, and I cried when they took me into the back... my spirit new something was different this day, forever changing my life, and I wept when my father was refused to escort me back into "the room". It started like any checkup, I was helped into the over-sized, vinyl chair and had a bib attached around my neck. Today was different, I was the only child in the room, the only patient in that wide opened room... the air was stale and still, smelling of old, smoked cigarettes. Next came the shots into the roof of my mouth, followed by some gas that made me a bit dizzy. Then things changed... I'll never forget the few memories that penetrated my innocent mind and shattered the dancing child within. I remember the dentist and two assistants, a male and a female, unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down to my ankles... I can still feel the cold, damp, chair against my naked flesh. I began getting very nervous, not understanding why my pants and underwear had been pulled down and why they were surrounded me on each side. The female assistant leaned over, pressing her breasts against my face, as the dentist placed one hand on my trembling leg. I couldn't see what was happening, but I could feel it when it broke the skin without prejudice... a "needle" was pushed deep into my right thigh. The male assistant, reached over and pinned down my left leg and another "needle" was inserted deeply into my left thigh. I say "needle", because all I could see was the woman's breast pushed tightly against my face... it felt sharp like a needle and there was something definitely stuck in my thighs. I began crying and moaning, and begging for them to stop... the reply rings clearly to this very day. The dentist replied, "I'm not going to take them out until you settle down and stop crying... this is going to happen.". It seemed like hours passed, the pain was excruciating, and I began dripping urine out of my tiny, scared penis. The next thing I remember was being rolled on my left side, facing the two assistants... the woman was holding down my shoulders and cheek against the vinyl chair and the male was stationed at  my lower half, rubbing my legs gently.  I remember hearing the woman moan as she rammed my face further into the chair. I could feel the dentist at my backside, although I have no active memory after he touched my hips... the last thing I remember was the taste of the chair mixed with my tears, running down my throat. In that instant, the child disappeared, and what followed will never be fully known. After years of therapy, it has been decided that I was anally assaulted by the dentist while the assistants fondled and caressed themselves and myself. I remember going home and seeing blood in the toilet that afternoon... not understanding why I was bleeding from my bottom and my mouth. A few days later, the stitches that were holding the graft in place, fell out and the newly attached flesh died... to this day, I still have the same condition on my lower, two front teeth. All that time and money was wasted and I didn't even receive a toy from the ordeal. My "treat" from the "goody, treasure chest" lasted far longer than any cheap, plastic toy... it's still with me today, and shall be for the rest of this life. My only regret is that the procedure was a failure... that lowered gum line makes me very self-conscious about smiling. Not to mention, going to the dentist has been a nightmare filled with panic and heartaches ever since...

When The Levee Breaks

Where would we be without our support systems? Not just in reference to the mentally ill, but in general. Whether you are a doctor, head engineer or drooling idiot... we need support. We rely on it, or them, as the case may be. I have mentioned before, that a support system is the key element to my survival... so say, the men and women of white coated fame. Living with Schizophrenia is not something I can explain or something anyone can really learn about from reading... you have to live in this nightmare to begin to understand the madness. Sure, lots of people know lots of wonderful things about us, the afflicted, but how clearly is that all defined? Yes, these are the symptoms... A, B, 3. These are the treatments... pills, support, therapy. But what does that mean? Now that you know the symptoms and treatments... are you prepared to understand what all of those things mean? Auditory hallucinations for example... you hear voices that aren't really there, but you think and believe they are there. Simple. "Snap out of it you fucking whiner and get over it already!! There are no voices talking to you!"... move on, next. Oh, if only that were true. Yes, technically the voices aren't real... but to those that hear them and are crushed daily under their thumbs, they are real. They are there... and they don't want to leave. You can't wish it away... there's no "snapping out of it" bullshit here. Taking medication can remove the voices, but in my case and for many others, I am certain... this isn't an option. We have lived this way for so long, that living another way isn't possible. The last time I went on medication to remove the voices, I became even more so depressed and suicidal. They may not be good company, most of the time... but something is better than nothing at all. The point is... I can't explain to you how severe of an illness this is... it's something you have to live with or witness to begin to understand.

Forgive the side track there, we were talking about support systems. "Technical support, technical support!"... I fucking love that movie. Why can't it be that simple... where is my Vanilla Sky? Without support, things begin to crumble... thrashing about themselves like fish in shallow waters. My doctors told me not too long ago, that the reason I was as functional as I am, is because of my support system... without them I would be homeless, living under a bridge in a dampened cardboard box, covered in my own feces and proclaiming my undying love for rotten meat. Well, that is really the whole point of it all isn't it? The long stories and explanations... every road is leading somewhere. In my world, trust isn't easily obtained... yet, I am forced to trust and rely on people every single day. My family members and the other interlopers that dwell within these walls from time to time, are supposed to be protecting, helping and watching over me. Lock the doors, check for fire, water leaks, running appliances, computers, lights... please! If they don't, it takes me hours upon hours to do all of these things... checking the entire house for issues and security breeches. When you see me scratching at my arm, searching for something... please come look at it and assure me it's okay before I start cutting chunks of flesh out. If I haven't eaten in a really long time, don't sit there and yell at me about it and accuse me of having an eating disorder... help me get some food. The the road leads here... my support system is failing. They don't understand and aren't helping me... they live with me most of the time and yet they don't understand. I have a house full of checks to do, I forgot to take my medications on time, I don't remember the last time I ate and right now I have blood pouring out of my arm because I can't stop cutting at it. I sit here alone in my room suffering, while they sleep... waking them isn't an option, this night is for me and the choir to handle. It's just us, we and them... watching the water spurt, as the levee breaks.

He Said, She Saw And We Heard... Nothing

Awhile back, I had mentioned that someone asked me to consider giving an interview for a class paper / project. I was very excited about the offer and agreed... the choir had assured me this would not be happening, so my response was moot. Time passed and I agreed with them... how easily one can be shifted in perspective. Well, it did happen... someone cared enough to ask me some questions and actually wanted to know about my thoughts. Sure, it's not going to change the world or be printed up in some famous or fancy newspaper or journal... but it wasn't about that, to me. Whether or not it touched anyone's life or changed the way they look at the mentally ill...I am uncertain. As for myself, it was touching to be asked and for a brief moment it returned some lost humanity... for a moment, my chains were broken and my voice regained sound. I will close today with the interview...



1. There are many theories about the relationship between creativity and mental illnesses. How strongly to you feel they relate, or if at all?

It's relative and subjective. Why does anyone really do anything, let alone excel at them? People struggling, or perhaps suffering some would say, with mental illnesses have an inner turmoil. That pain manifests expression, creative or otherwise, and it's put forth in a manner that is comfortable. Some paint while others may write, but it isn't a flower in a vase or man toiling the earth... it's their soul and the connection that is missing with the rest of humanity. We don't relate well to the "real world" and those "accepted citizens". For the most part, we are the outcasts and the ridiculed... misunderstood and the things that happen to all the bad little children. The difficulties swarming inside need an outlet and the rejection causes a need of acceptance... where one area of the mind is repressed, another will bloom. Creativity isn't something that can be taught or learned, it's born deep within the soul... something we have buried deep inside. When you spend time locked within yourself... there you will find it.


2. I am aware that you are a fan of Edgar Allan Poe. It is said that he suffered from manic-depressive bipolar disorder. Do you believe this affected his writings? Also, what is it about his work that you are so fond of/connect to?

I do believe it affected his writings in a vast degree... not just the illness, but also the manner in which he treated it. Poe lived a life full of tragedy, which in itself aided in his writing, but more so worsened his mental stability. Chaos brings about creativity... you burrow deep within to find solace and there you find clarity through expression. Poe treated his mental illness with substance abuse as a form of self-medication. This practice is common among the mentally ill and something very familiar to myself... unmeasurable perspective can be gained from awakening covered in your own vomit and feces. Had his mind been unaffected by mental illness, perhaps he wouldn't have abused drugs so heavily. In turn, he wouldn't have fallen so deep within himself to find the clarity and insight that he expressed. Troubled as he was, he wasn't the grave-robbing, sweaty toothed madman people think him to be based on his writings. That's what makes the written word so priceless... nothing is as simple as it seems. My favorite work of Poe's would be The Fall of the House of Usher... not for the content, but the message. In a way, I deeply identify with Poe and his life... the tragedy of loss, guilt and fear. His drug addiction and fascination with sharing his thoughts freely to the unaccepting populace. The way he weaved his words into a layered tapestry of thought. "I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity." ... I hear you, my friend, I hear you.


3. Do you think that schizophrenia gives you a creative advantage?

Advantage comes with the price of disadvantage. Do I feel I have a creative edge? Personally, I would answer with a resounding no. People have told me, including my doctors and therapists, that I have exceptional gift in writing. When I was younger, I played flamenco classical guitar and was labeled "gifted" and many opportunities laid themselves before me. I wonder what the others see... is it not an apple tree at all? I believe my expressions, whether in writing or music, to be nothing of significance. With the choir singing it's daily reminder of what and whom I really am, never once is talented, gifted or creative uttered... "worthless", "monster", "filth" and "kill yourself" are my compliments and validation. This disease makes living "normally" almost impossible. Even if I did possess such talents, what good would they be if my biggest goal is to bathe sometime this week? So you see, there is the disadvantage. People of a healthy mind, have the strength and drive to live life and seek out their dreams. Here I sit, with a cardboard box of scribblings making sure my front door is tightly locked.


4. When do you mainly write? What emotions are you feeling? Do you write while under these emotions or after the fact?

Usually, I write as a means of therapy. I write in a blog online and I refer to it as "my silent scream to the world". Admittedly, I don't write there daily and sometimes weeks will pass before I find the courage to put my feelings into the void. I suppose I write most during conflict of some manner... inner conflict is a constant, but it takes time to separate my thoughts from those screaming within my head. Sometimes I write within the thick of it all, lashing out venomous spit at the world in frustration. Other times, I write when my thoughts have settled in one direction. Honestly, I suppose there really isn't a pattern of when I write. It could be either when I am confronted with an issue or thought, in emotional distress or longing or when I can't take it anymore and something needs to spill out before my chest explodes. The emotions I feel are all negative and constant. This illness and my abusive childhood have rendered me unable to feel positive emotions from other people. This causes a great deal of conflict in trying to understand the emotions I am feeling towards others... especially when love enters the mind. The emotions I feel, even when writing about love, are hopelessness, fear, loss, anxiety, ire, torment, confusion and discomfort. It is difficult to write about something you have no experience with... how does one know the breath within is stale, if he has never tasted the wind? When I do write, it is sure to be filled with some type of passion... and sometimes, I am shocked at what has been unearthed. Passion... the one thing that can raise us from the grave or usher us into it.

Violent Vibrations

Rewind. Stop the tape... rewind! Words spew from mouth... bubbling sewage, rotting the impressionable minds. I need to cease my communications with people in a direct fashion... no letters, no conversation, no smiles. My thoughts come out as violent assaults to the senses... I feel the vibrations but they all translate into irrational mumblings. I think differently, I speak differently... layers of thought blended into simple phrases. I mean what I say, but the ears aren't listening... the eyes are scratched out and bleeding with nothing to see. Love, life, decay. They are not words of endearment... I am not capable of understanding such a sensation. Emotions are curious insects... eating, toiling, spoiling. If I speak softly, then I am ignored. If I speak bluntly, then wounds appear. If I speak with eloquence, then I am a sexual deviant. My tongue has become the plague upon this house... I should cut it out, replacing it with slate and chalk. Pictures deemed the appropriate form of speech. Love would be a heart, thoughts would be bubbles and fucking would be an erect penis inside a candy counter. I can't bear the constant rejection from the people I try to communicate with. I have a legion of voices casting judgment in my mind... your chastising is fodder; stop vibrating. It becomes a violent mass in my stomach... I need to rip it out of me and smash it against their faces. I need someone that can listen with their eyes and speak with their minds... it's not black, white and gray. I need a response to fulfill the communication highway... colored thoughts and controlled vibrations.

Closure

No matter how painful or tear lined it may be... I need this chapter of my life to be closed. Whether your words are spun by a forked tongue or there is a final stab wrenching in my stomach... I need to know why. Stripped away from me, like a trophy, was my innocence... my fragile, virgin state of mind. Leaving me without a towel to wipe my tears or to plug the hole you ripped in my chest. You abandoned me on that silver street, never to return and witness the ruins left by your hand. Even though you left without any remorse or indecision, returning to what once was adequate... I needed more. I needed the explanation. I needed the goodbyes. I needed the insincere apologies. I needed the closure. For these things, no matter how mending, I mustn't wait. Those words will never come and I must repair the pieces alone. Breath by breath and day by day, I send your name unto the void... to learn to trust again. As I remove your words, which dangled my heart... I'll learn to live once more.

My Zephyr, My Moon

Karma, it always finds you. When I was younger... a head full of ego and self importance... I used to seek out the vulnerable as prey. It gave me a feeling of self worth, power and a rush of excitement... life. The disease in my mind, over the years, has made me very fragile... vulnerable. Now I have become the prey... the hunted. It has come full circle. Though I am now older and have, for the most part, put the childish behavior to rest... I am still accountable for my wrong doings. Therefore, karma has the right to make me her quivering bitch at a whim's notice. With wounded pride, shattered heart and more fear in my heart towards the world and those that dwell in it... I am forced to move on. It hurt beyond words, to be led to the slaughter... lied to, built up, then torn down. No remorse or reasons given... you left my life just as quickly as you came. I had little to nothing before... now, I have nothing. I put my faith in your words and began to trust the songs you sang to me nightly... like dripping wax, they seeped into my mind. Leaving now a cool, hardened echo... I may never hear those songs again from another voice. Scar tissue filters out all of what could be and I am left to dwell in the ramblings of my insanity. If there was anything left to feel betrayed or broken... I don't know if I could handle this sorrow. But you took it all from me, every last piece. I should be grateful and offer some reward... for I am dead inside. There's nothing... I am numb.

It Still Bleeds Red...Though Thick And Cold

Rather than post more of my ramblings or perhaps a verse from long ago... I decide to post another one of my favorites, from a far greater mind than my own. I can think of no other words that can better express my current thoughts.


"The Sick Rose"

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy;
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

-William Blake

Your Silence Speaks Volumes

Sitting at my desk, listening to the many voices that fill my mind, I heard loud and clear the true answer to my problems. All of this time I have been blaming people for shunning me, making me the outcast and not giving me a fair chance... it appears all of those thoughts may be misguided. The problem is me... I am a broken individual and I don't function well in regards to others. People are uncomfortable around be, so they slink away. I am physically ugly, so they stare in shock. I try to speak to someone and I make them uncomfortable, so they retreat and ignore me. I claim people don't feel anything at all any more, that the world has become callous... it is I that is feeling too deeply, knowing not what I am feeling. I am the creepy monster I see reflected by the faces in this world. It is me that has the problem... I am the problem. I am the sick disease that needs a knife stuck through their throat... it is all me. The choir sings with approval... all this time I was running away from the truth. I am what sickens people, that is why they sicken me... the world has become my mirror and the only thing it is reflecting is myself. I can't go on living like this... as the problem and broken. This needs to stop... it has to.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Just when you think you can't possibly handle any more, life has a way of pushing the envelope just a wee bit further... slicing your cold flesh as warm butter. In April, I discovered that someone very close to me had been stealing my SSI... final amount taken before realizing this offense, $2,280. In December of last year (2009), I was final approved for SSI due to my schizophrenia and my beyond fucked up back... I had tried to apply back in 2002 when I was no longer able to work due to my various mental illnesses. Needless to say, when I was finally approved after I had given up so long ago, I was very relieved and finally started to feel like I was worth a little something. In short, this money represented my "manhood" in a sense. I went to the bank and withdrew my years worth of back pay a few days after the deposit cleared and stored the money for safe keeping in my closet... soon I discovered the rats in the banks also lurked inside the walls of your home as well. Seeing how I don't allow many people in my life, due to my severe paranoia and trust issues, this was more than a betrayal... in fact there are no words to describe the impact this had on my life and how damaging this was to my relationship with this person involved. After much debate and thought, I decided this particular relationship was too important to cast into the void... so we began traveling down the jagged road of reconciliation. Things seemed to be getting better in a manner of speaking, although far from repaired. This person agreed to get a job in their limited free time to begin repaying the money little by little... now 6 months has passed and that has yet to happen and frankly, no efforts to do such have ever been made. Well, today we had a conversation about some "oddities" that have been occurring... for example, they have been spending a lot of money for someone that doesn't have a job or any means of income. I started the conversation with, "Are you familiar with the story, 'Alice In Wonderland' ? "... let's just see how deep this rabbit hole goes, shall we. It turns out, this individual has been stealing my pain medication (Dilaudid) and selling it to people to support their spending habits and luxuries... please insert knife here and twist. I was at a loss for words when this information came to light and even now, I can't begin to describe the impact of such a revelation. I wanted to lash out, I wanted to spill blood... but perhaps they knew I wouldn't and that is why they confessed. There is a good reason why I keep people out of my life.. mainly because I can't handle the disappointment and betrayals that seem to come along with relationships of any degree. If anything, I am grateful that I escaped the irony of being re-payed the debt of my stolen SSI money with money earned by stealing and selling my pain medication on the side... thank goodness for good, old fashioned selfishness and greed.

My Childhood Companion

When I was a child, one Christmas, I received a puppet from my parents. He had a velvety nose, long shiny brown ears and dark black eyes... he was a precious puppy and soon to become my best friend and nightmare. I named him Browser. No, there is nothing special about the name, just birthed from an excited child's imagination. Browser and I went everywhere together and had several wonderful adventures... life couldn't get any more perfect. Soon, Browser learned to talk and was given a personality by my mother. He was quite the trouble maker and a tad bit rebellious. My mother would talk through him for what seemed like hours... he made us all laugh, for awhile. Soon, my mother began to talk through him more and more and often said how much he loved his Grams... that was the name she had given herself. Over time, my precious friend and companion no longer wanted to spend any time with me... he wanted to spend his time with Grams reading the Bible and praying. I was often times condemned by Browser and labeled a sinner for not praying enough and that my life was to be spent burning in the pits of Hell, if I didn't mend my ways. It wasn't much longer till even more hateful words would spew from Browser's mouth and within a short amount of time it had become a daily ritual. "I hate you Daddy! Your breath stinks! You're Ugly! You're Fat! You're Stupid! You're Worthless! I'm going to slit your throat when you sleep tonight!". For several years this abuse continued, every day, several times a day. I began to hate back. It was hard enough to listen to these words coming from my once best friends mouth... I remember laughing along with them, because it was safer than crying. I wanted to return the pain unto those that had hurt me, so I began kidnapping Browser from my mother's room and hurting him. I would place him in the sink and drown him with water and then place him into the freezer. My mother would become frantic looking for him and then screaming sharply as she found him frozen. Her eyes would begin to tear up and she would scream like an injured animal. I would watch and smile... enjoying the comfort that came from her heart wrenching cries. Sometimes, I would just run into her room and grab him and swing his face violently against the counter tops... his once velvety nose shattering upon impact and flying through the air like ashes from a crematorium. Her reaction was always the same and I always found so much pleasure in tormenting her and listening to those screams, "Stop! Please, I am begging you! Please!". Even to this day, when I hear someone scream on television or a movie... my eyes glaze over and a crooked smile forms upon my face. I laugh to myself and out loud... comforted by the pain, fear and terror. Browser now lives with me and for the most part is silent. However once and awhile I pick him up and dust him off and offer him a hug and some love. He stares back at me and opens his mouth... "I hate you Daddy!". I smile at him and say, "I know Browser, I do too... I do too.".

Broken

My spirit is broken today. I have misplaced my voice somewhere near the paper umbrellas and lemon wedges. My thoughts are clouded by the familiar puffs of nicotine coated smoke. There is always the risk of falling when trying to climb out of a hole. Careful whose hand you hold... it just may be too brittle.


Listen & Feel

Tomorrow is another day... perhaps I will try again.