Stupid

So much of my memory is in pieces.  I can remember the tiniest detail of some while other are hazy bits that are stronger to my senses than anything else. 

I can read a page and have a perfect picture of it in my mind.  But ask me what my favorite food is and I will have no way to answer that. 

I'm not really a stupid person but most of the time that is exactly how I feel.  That and embarrassed.

I wake up to find crayon colored pictures scattered all over the floor of my closet. 

I have clothes that I hate and have no idea where they came from. 

I come into conversations midstream desperately trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say.  My husband calls it my "no one's home look" where I stare off into nothing only to come back having no idea what's going on.

My husband calls me when I'm home alone and asks me what I'm doing... I have no idea because I haven't been around at all so I make up something dumb.  Like giving the dogs a bath for the third time in a week.

I have curly hair but I prefer it straightened.  Still others love to wear it curly and will do so whenever they have the chance.

I have to concentrate really hard to keep from referring to myself as we, us, our, etc... .

Each day I feel like I wake up watching a movie started in the middle that I've never seen before.  If I pay close enough attention I can figure out most of it but I always have this nagging feeling that I'm missing something.  Probably because I am.

As a kid I can see how this worked well.  I could wake up, brush my teeth and go to school and function having no memory of the hellish night before.

But now it just leaves me stupid.  Like when others decide that they don't want to take our medication.  They spit it out, hide it or now, they throw the bottles away. 

My choices to fix it: call my shrink and verify that I'm absolutely nuts; get new prescriptions filled that will cost me dearly because of how my insurance is set up; or go through the bitch of withdrawals until I can get them filled again at a normal cost.

I rarely cry but this one reduces me to tears.  It shouldn't be this hard to take care of myself.  I shouldn't have to be baby-sat, watched and followed up with.  I'm tired of being embarrassed and I'm tired of being stupid.  It shouldn't be this hard.

Madness

I find it easier to talk about my father than my mother.  His was such an overt evil that even when I lose myself to denial, I find my way back quickly with the jolt of a single memory.  Because they are all bad.

So much is made of the father/daughter and the mother/son relationship and how that connection shapes a person.  But what about the mother/daughter relationship?

My mother.  I believe that I was the beginning of the end for her.  During the holiday with my father's family I learned that I spent time in a mental hospital via my mother.  She was pregnant and they found her trying to abort me.  I'll spare the details but off to the loony bin she and I went.

How does something like that shape a daughter?  I have always known that she did not want me.  Even that she wished that I had never been born.  Once I was in this world; I forever connected her to him and she was trapped. 

That makes me sad for her.

His eyes were always black with rage, lust or something in between.  Her eyes danced with madness.

I have always bristled at the assertion that she was crazy.  It feels like an excuse for her.  But what it really is; it's terrifying.

I remember being in kindergarten waiting for her to pick me up.  I was almost always last because she was always late.  Fridays were the best though because I got my Weekly Reader hand out.  I would sit at the end of the hall and tear tiny pieces away and eat them.  A good day was when I only had the time to eat half of the back page.

It started as a good day when she picked me up.  The teacher called my name and I crammed my paper into my bag.  I always rushed down the hall but each time the doors opened I would slow as I approached her car.  I suppose I was trying to gauge her mood but really I just irritated her by being slow.

This day she leaned across the front seat to fling the passenger door open.  As the door creaked to let me in I saw her.  A gauzy pink robe.  Her naked belly bulging with my sister due in early June.  Curly hairs that I had to tear my eyes away from.

hurry up.  get in the car.  it's hotter than hell sitting around waiting on you.

None of this was spoken in her mean voice.  This was that scary sing song voice and when she picked me up like this it was the worst.  Mean; I knew what to expect.  Crazy; I couldn't anticipate a thing.

I scooted across the hot vinyl seat as I heard her say something about ice cream.  I wanted to tell her that I wasn't hungry but I did not want to be the one to pull her down in a crashing heap.

She wasn't dressed.  Not even close.  But as I stole a look I saw perfect make up and perfect hair.  These were the hardest days to figure out.  Depressed body.  Happy hair and face.

Steel blue eyeshadow surrounded her pale blue eyes.  Her pupil was the calm eye of the dancing hurricane whirling in her mind.  Music blaring.  Hot wind blowing my pigtails in my face.  She's singing as she lights a cigarette.  Between her legs is a pretty bottle hiding in brown paper.  Her robe is moving with the air and I can see the cuts and scars on her thighs.  Madness.

Baskin Robbins... 31 flavors... what kind of ice cream do you want?

we can't go in.  you don't have clothes.

Don't be silly... I can tie my robe... what do you want?

a clown cone.

I can remember thinking... clowns are scary but not as scary as you are.  Madness.

I sink down in the seat while she goes in.  Looking for something to do, I open the glove box and see her silver bottle.  I pull it out and screw the top off as I hear the sound of liquid.  I tip it back and my head follows.  It burns but I keep on drinking.

I finish it and put it back as quickly as I found it.  This isn't my first try.  I don't know what it is but I know that it makes me feel weird but better.  Calmer.  And warm.

I hear her yelling as she storms out of the shop.  The tie of her robe is trailing behind her.  There she is but not ashamed.  In one hand is my clown cone.  In the other is a cup of chocolate ice cream; her favorite.

I hate chocolate ice cream.

She gets in the car and practically throws my cone at me.  The white wrapper falls to the floor but I save the clown.  She is incensed.  As I lean down to pick up the paper I peek again at her naked belly and I see the baby moving.

Tried to do something nice for you... this is the thanks I get...

I whisper a thank you and she slaps me across my face.  I feel bad about eating the clown.  I'm scared to hurt his face.  It starts to melt and make a mess.  She grabs it and throws it out the window as the car weaves between the cars and lines around us. 

Pick your feet up... we are on a magic carpet... feel the hot desert wind... close your eyes to keep the sand out...

There is no sand but I feel really funny so I close my eyes.  I lay down on the vinyl seat; as close to her without touching her.  Hot ashes sprinkle on my cheek.  They sting but I am too tired to care.   But then hot fire touches and my scalp begins to burn.  I smell the burning flesh and hair and know that another circle will be hidden by my thick brown hair.

A single tear slips out as the madness of the speeding car rocks me to sleep.

I wake up in the dark with the stickiness of the ice cream still on my hands.  I'm still in the car.  My mom is gone.  I don't know where we are.  The windows are cracked but I can't get the door open.

I'm not worried about where she is.  I'm just scared of what will happen next.  I count my fingers to twenty over and over.  It's really dark now.

I open up the glove box but remember that I already drank the silver bottle.  I shut it.  I'm hungry.

I open my bag and find my Weekly Reader.  Half of the back page gone; that was a good day.  I start to tear pieces off and one by one I feel the tiny papers melt on my tongue.  I tear until there's nothing left to tear. 

It's a really bad day when I have the time to eat all my Weekly Reader.  Madness.

Blocks

Silence.  It sings when perfectly still.  With the constant banter in my mind it is hard to find a silent spot.  But when I do, I find the warmth in being all alone. 

Sleeping well evades me as I roam our home.  In the dark I am listening for that silent tune where there is no fear.  No screams.  No pain.  No awakened anguish.  These times when I'm all alone are few.  I cherish them and hope for the next time not so far away.

As a child I loved to be alone.  These were moments when I was safe.  I could play in my room for hours; always in a corner facing out but alone and content.   Even found in a closet, darkness and pieces of air could be a symphony.  The whispers of my friends were welcome but even they learned to listen to the music.

Much more pain and many more shattered friends later; the silence has all but disappeared.   Each chance to be alone I embrace.  I hope that in this time I will hear that peace I loved so much. 

But then the chatter starts and builds block upon block.  There is no safety in numbers as the distractions are so great.  Angry at the peace they have obstructed, I swing to topple those blocks.  But as they crash the sounds only grow more intense.  I stop and look at what I've done.  The damage I myself have created. 

I turn my back on them as if they have no voice.  But their tiny words pierce my mind.  I hold my head.  I pound with my fists.  I take a pill.  Nothing works to drown them out. 

In desperation I pick up a block and I see it for what it is.  A tiny piece of a careful wall constructed all around me.  Protection from the worst. 

I listen as the block begins to speak; not a scream yet not a whisper either.  I want to throw it back into the pile but instead I pick up another.  The more I listen, I realize what I always knew.

These blocks were once the safest corner in which I played.  And then he destroyed that protective angle in which I fit so perfectly.  Devastation as my childish hands picked up the bits and block by block a wall began to form.

A small stack of blocks behind me show a tiny bit of progress.  Many more blocks are scattered.  One block.  Two blocks.  Another and another.  Some are heavy.  Some are sharp and jagged.  Some are big; the cornerstones.  And then the tiniest of pieces; shattered as they bore the worst.

As I ask to listen their weight lessens.  And a painful yet simple I'm sorry smooths away their exposed rawness.  With that they are ready to find their spot in a new and wholly constructed wall.

And my strength is reinforced.

Joe

Burned, bruised and broken.  One split lip on top of another.  A line of bruises march up your back like a second spine. 

You cut your lip walking up some stairs.  The bruises come from childish horseplay. 

Nothing big.  Not for a tough kid.  Accidents happen because I'm clumsy.

Don't touch my neck.  Don't touch my shoulders.  Don't touch my back.  They all hurt but it's no big deal.

It's hidden why I can't sit down.  Why I wince as a blister pops when my shirt shifts just so.

Such a hot burn leaves such a cold bubble behind.  It's funny how that happens as if the fluid is the blister's way of saying sorry for hurting as it sizzled and later puffed with defiant pride.  A protective way to hide the tears.

As the liquid seeps on past my skin I straighten stiff to keep my uniform shirt from touching.  If I feel the coolness reach my waist I have a chance to hide the tears my ugly back always cries.

These are the tears that I do not have to cry.  They are locked within my skin reserved for burning.  Silent, secret sobs as my skin heaves with pain.

Bruises heal and skin always knits.  But my scars, they weep forever.

Jill

I see you so small.  Pink and purple hair screaming for attention.

Tiny flecks of glitter just enough to sparkle in his darkness.

A camera says that you are pretty.  He orders you to touch your shame.  Muffled threats I cannot hear but your fear speaks louder than a human word.

bad dad.  bad dad.  bad dad.

Purple spots behind the eyes as his hands wrap around my neck.  Orange rope takes their place as his hands move to hurt me.  Nearly falling asleep makes it better.  For him.  The excitement and the power are his to do as he wants.

A reminder of those special times.  A cold and stringent splash burns my nose and then my eyes.  Liquid to clean a dirty girl.  The faintest smell of dirt as I run my fingers along and catch a splinter of a forever home.  Buried with his scent forever lingering as more glitter runs away with every pour.

No more sparkle.  Just the dirt.

His suffocating smell calls out to Afraid.  If I wake I live another day in his darkness. If I die I am afraid.

Afraid no one will miss me. Afraid of a funeral with no flowers.