about what your mother is doing. you cant seem to get past needing her so your business doesn't go under, or needing her because you are going through a divorce again because you put yourself in the same situation that you do every time you meet mr. right.
and you are counting on me, and you are counting on her to, once again, clean up the mess you have made of your life. and i am disappointed, not for you but in you.
little do you know that she is dieing, killing her in one of the most slow, painful ways imaginable. she is taking so much pain medicine that if someone were to take as much as she takes on any given day, it would kill them. but she has developed a tolerance for it. so now, the only effect of her taking it is the feeling of euphoria that she gets, i know that feeling all too well, euphoria that is.
but what you don't see is that because of the size dose she is taking, it is slowing down the circulation, slowing down the circulation in her heart, and lungs. making it hard to breath, she is drowning, but you think it is okay because it isn't alcohol that she is drowning in this time, "it is something that she needs to deal with the pain."
but like i have said, it is not the fact that she takes the medicine, it is the way she takes it. it is that she feels like she is crawling out of her skin when she doesn't take it. it is the fact that when her doctor goes out of town and she runs out of her prescription she will fake a heart attack you she can get the morphine through an iv, my personal favorite.. iv drug use.
the personal bond between someone, and a needle, the bond between ME and MY needle. the true love of my life, the thing that will hold me when nothing else will, my support system, my family, my best friend and my lover.
the cooking, processing, preparing, serving.. the fact that i allow it to enter my body, let the point slide in, release the purpose of my existence, the prick that only lasts for a second, the burn of something foreign in my veins that only happens when i haven't been with my lover in a while, and the pulling out and holding my finger over the spot so i don't get little blood droplets on my shirt. the track marks that i have to cover, so my girlfriend will not know that i am having an affair, because i will never love her as much as i love my needles, and that would be devastating.
oh yes, i understand about being addicted to drugs, to sex, to relationships, to slicing into my own flesh, to eating, to not eating and purging when i do.. i get it.
and i know that if we live by statistics, that i will die with my lover. and i know that even if i do manage to separate from it, that i will still be a statistic, and there are days that my lover tells me, "you are going to die a statistic either way, why would you force yourself to be without me, when we can be together, after all.. if your going to die someday, you may as well be happy when you do it."
more often than not over the past year i have not given in.
but i want to save her from killing herself, partly because she is family, partly because i feel obligated to, and partly because i want her to suffer through losing the one thing left in this world that makes her feel whole. her lover.
because i really hate her, and what some may see as an act of love is actually me attempting to destroy her in a different way. because i know what it feels like to detox, to be in a ball in the bathroom floor, shaking, sweating, and throwing up. being so sick that you cant move. and i can only hope that she will be in her bathroom floor, leaning over her toilet, so sick she wished she was dead, and i can only hope that she will glance over and see the two loaded shot guns she has in her bathtub for protection against the outside world. i don't necessarily hope that she blows her brains out all over the wall leaving a mess for someone else to clean up. i hope she has a flash back of her mother being shot in the neck, becoming a paraplegic, leaving her to take care of her 5 other brothers and sisters.. i hope she feels something. weather it is the fear and or satisfaction of pulling the trigger, or some kind of hope, i fucking hope she changes what she has become.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Saturday, January 16, 2010
here i am again
im laying in his bed and hes stroking my hair..
"do you want to make love to me tonight?"
he asks me that question every time i spend the night at his house. i always think the same thing, your 28, im 19. your a man, i prefer women. no, i really have no desire to have sex with you, you are one of my best friends. i am not interested in you at all.
so naturally, i say "yes."
because little does he know, i can not say no to him. not because i love him, not because i am mentally or physically attracted to him, but because saying no to any man means getting the shit beat out of you until you couldn't stop him even if you tried.
my father taught me that, my mothers second husband only confirmed. my father taught me what it feels like to be grown up. he taught me what it feels like to have a grown mans penis in a 4 year old girls body. he taught me that love really has no boundaries, that because he made me, he could do with me what he wanted. he taught me that sex was the way to show someone respect..
in all honestly, the only reason i wrote this is because i needed to say it, needed to let it out instead of hiding it, covering it with layers of scars and track marks. i needed to be able say out loud, or in this case write that it still hurts. i still feel it when i go to sleep at night. i still stare at a man discussed when i see him with a child, thinking of all the horrible things that may or may not be going on.. ive been there.
i hate hate most people and their responses to the real world. there is no need to pity me. if i hear another fucking, "oh, poor kid" i might just explode. that is why i dont tell people, not even most of my friends about my past, because the world looks at you differently when they realize that youve been through something. trust me, it is not the worst of it.
most peoples response would be to not talk to me anymore, because it was too much for them to handle. mother fucker, dont tell me about too much to handle, i lived it. if you cant even hear about something like that without having a mental break down i feel sorry for you. shit happens.
and the truth is, that even as fucked up as it was, my father taught me something. he taught me not to put all my trust in someone because people are human, and they make mistakes, and theyre fucked up.. the only person that i have to trust is myself, and if i cant trust myself then im fucked..
"do you want to make love to me tonight?"
he asks me that question every time i spend the night at his house. i always think the same thing, your 28, im 19. your a man, i prefer women. no, i really have no desire to have sex with you, you are one of my best friends. i am not interested in you at all.
so naturally, i say "yes."
because little does he know, i can not say no to him. not because i love him, not because i am mentally or physically attracted to him, but because saying no to any man means getting the shit beat out of you until you couldn't stop him even if you tried.
my father taught me that, my mothers second husband only confirmed. my father taught me what it feels like to be grown up. he taught me what it feels like to have a grown mans penis in a 4 year old girls body. he taught me that love really has no boundaries, that because he made me, he could do with me what he wanted. he taught me that sex was the way to show someone respect..
in all honestly, the only reason i wrote this is because i needed to say it, needed to let it out instead of hiding it, covering it with layers of scars and track marks. i needed to be able say out loud, or in this case write that it still hurts. i still feel it when i go to sleep at night. i still stare at a man discussed when i see him with a child, thinking of all the horrible things that may or may not be going on.. ive been there.
i hate hate most people and their responses to the real world. there is no need to pity me. if i hear another fucking, "oh, poor kid" i might just explode. that is why i dont tell people, not even most of my friends about my past, because the world looks at you differently when they realize that youve been through something. trust me, it is not the worst of it.
most peoples response would be to not talk to me anymore, because it was too much for them to handle. mother fucker, dont tell me about too much to handle, i lived it. if you cant even hear about something like that without having a mental break down i feel sorry for you. shit happens.
and the truth is, that even as fucked up as it was, my father taught me something. he taught me not to put all my trust in someone because people are human, and they make mistakes, and theyre fucked up.. the only person that i have to trust is myself, and if i cant trust myself then im fucked..
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
you may not understand why
i haven't written in quit a while, in fact, the last time i wrote was the day before a friend of mine decided to hang herself.
i was writing her a letter because she asked me to, said it was more personal than talking on the phone, than exchanging emails. said it would give her something to look forward to while she waited for me, waited for me to get her out of the hell hole town we became friends in.
i got a call the next day, i knew something happened because i felt it in my gut.
"red, im so sorry but brosia hung herself in her room last night. shes gone, the paramedics said her neck was not broken, so she strangled herself. im so sorry... hello? red, are you there?..."
'yes, i am here. thank you for telling me. i have to go, i will be late for work..'
i must say, any normal person would have called in sick, felt some sort of emotion. not me, the only thing i remember feeling was feeling like i lost my breath the night before while i was trying to sleep. i felt no emotion.
instead i felt sick. i felt sick and angry. why would she have asked me to write her if she had no interest in reading it. she clearly wanted me to remember her and associate her with writing. she knew me all too well, she knew i would make that connection.
and i knew her all to well, because in my hand was a good by letter i wrote her, telling her all the things i wanted to tell her before she went, because i knew her. and i knew that the conversation we had the night before was going to be our last but i didn't know why.
i promised her that i would see her soon because i didn't want to stick around much longer. i said that i would see her in a year, and we would talk about all the things i knew were going on but didn't confront her about.
she died on february 28th 2009, today is january 13th 2010. i use to believe that i would see her again. now, i know better than to function on false hope, i know better than to think that i will ever see my friend again, i know better than to write again, because writing is painful, and i know better than to believe in anything but moment. here i am, in this moment, writing.
i was writing her a letter because she asked me to, said it was more personal than talking on the phone, than exchanging emails. said it would give her something to look forward to while she waited for me, waited for me to get her out of the hell hole town we became friends in.
i got a call the next day, i knew something happened because i felt it in my gut.
"red, im so sorry but brosia hung herself in her room last night. shes gone, the paramedics said her neck was not broken, so she strangled herself. im so sorry... hello? red, are you there?..."
'yes, i am here. thank you for telling me. i have to go, i will be late for work..'
i must say, any normal person would have called in sick, felt some sort of emotion. not me, the only thing i remember feeling was feeling like i lost my breath the night before while i was trying to sleep. i felt no emotion.
instead i felt sick. i felt sick and angry. why would she have asked me to write her if she had no interest in reading it. she clearly wanted me to remember her and associate her with writing. she knew me all too well, she knew i would make that connection.
and i knew her all to well, because in my hand was a good by letter i wrote her, telling her all the things i wanted to tell her before she went, because i knew her. and i knew that the conversation we had the night before was going to be our last but i didn't know why.
i promised her that i would see her soon because i didn't want to stick around much longer. i said that i would see her in a year, and we would talk about all the things i knew were going on but didn't confront her about.
she died on february 28th 2009, today is january 13th 2010. i use to believe that i would see her again. now, i know better than to function on false hope, i know better than to think that i will ever see my friend again, i know better than to write again, because writing is painful, and i know better than to believe in anything but moment. here i am, in this moment, writing.
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