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Discursive Reminiscing

October 2, 2013

(I must write this shit or my fucking brain will corrode or explode — September 14, 2013)

headSometimes I dwell within these reveries, but I can not lose my grip on reality… You know in that song by Queen, “Bohemian Rhapsody,” Freddy Mercury says: “is this the real life, is this just fantasy..” I feel this way a lot.

Some people here think I’m crazy/weird or act weird, because I walk around the yard alone at times “talking to myself.” Truthfully, 9 out of 10 times I’m reciting lyrics. Sometimes I am muttering curses to myself, at myself, about life. Couple of word sentences like, “Fuckin A,” “Damn it,” “what the fuckin hell, son of a bitch.” Stuff like that. But usually it’s a lil Metallica, some Megadeth, or Alice in Chains. You know. Or on a lighter note, a lil Van Halen.

Just trying to do what feels right for my mind. But sometimes I do what’s wrong. I shouldn’t allow my mind to get so caught up in fantasy. And I should be stronger. Sometimes it’s difficult to hold the pain back for so long, not always so easy to hold back the fool. If I could, I’d escape those times, I’d fix them. I’d think better, more clearly. I don’t care what 99% of people think of me. But I care what she thinks of me. Sometimes I don’t feel like I’ve been myself or sometimes I just wish that I was “BETTER.”

The poetry of the song “Nutshell” by Alice In Chains has been called maudlin, and ironically, that is one of the things that makes the song so powerful, along with the great musical accompaniment.

On another note, there’s a song that says “I’ll pretend you’re still alive” (Get Born Again, a song I believe is about the hypocrisy of the Catholic Religion). Well, I usually change that line to “I’ll pretend I’m still alive.”

I’m a fucking liar. I need to snap back to life, snap back to reality. I’m just sick of being a loser and a failure, but that doesn’t change when one only feigns success.

The truth is: I’ve been feeling a hell of a lot better lately. Must need to sort out some of this past bull-shit. Have to get back to where I’m supposed to be. Got to be who I am. I am what I am, and I hate what I am, but still it’s what I am. I don’t always hate myself anymore like I used to. What an odd and difficult time to find affection for one’s self. Really. It truly is. At the end of the fucking road. Ha, Ha. It’s kinda bitter… sweet… bitter… sweet… Bitter sometimes. Sweet sometimes. Sometimes bittersweet.

“Is this the real life, is this just fantasy,
caught in a landslide, escape from reality.”

I’ve been doing that since I was a little boy in the group homes. Alone. Alone. Alone. Fantasizing, pretending people loved me. I guess since a woman was the cruelest to me growing up, I’ve always desired the love and approval of a woman. I wasn’t one of those twisted minds who turned out to hate and kill women just because I was abused by one. Jerilyn (paternal grandmother) tried to place me into that category of psychopath. She told me things like “You’re a manipulator;” “You’re a liar;” “You’re incorrigible;” “You’re violent;” “You’re out of control;” and so many other fucking things. She told one of my therapists I was a “master manipulator” especially with women, just because the therapist believed me that I hadn’t stolen Jerilyn’s fucking garage sale money. We didn’t see that therapist any more.

I love women. I want them to love me. Maybe I’m just a little strange. In the group homes, I was always on one-on-one staff watch, because I was a little crazy. I used to hurt myself sometimes. I lashed out a lot, too, just causing a ruckus and disorder. A lot of times, for some reason, my one-on-one was a pretty Mexican woman. I “fell in love” with all of them. One of them sat there and stroked my hair and talked to me for about an hour. I told her that other kids were saying I had a weird-shaped head. She said that I just had that bump in the back of my head to protect my brain because I am smart. I loved her. There was another very pretty young woman who was very strict with me but not mean, and I never really got mad at her. I just used to be like “oh, man, damn, I don’t wanna go back to my room” and laugh. I used to listen to her though. Most times, with other staff, I’d throw a huge fit and “terrorize” the whole cottage. There was another woman and I told her I had this girlfriend named Lupita. She wasn’t really my girlfriend, but we had a special relationship –we gave each other affection, held hands, snuck in hugs and kisses on the cheek, sometimes on the lips. Well, I told my one-on-one that I wanted to kiss Lupita after one of the coed events that day. She said “no.” But then she told me to hug Lupita, take her hand and kiss her on the hand. I didn’t think that was all that cool, but she assured me it would be. So I did it, and Lupita was overjoyed. My one-on-one told me that makes girls feel special in some sort of way, because it’s a tender gesture of love and deference.

I loved these women. Their presence in my life wouldn’t allow me to grow to hate women as women. Even if they weren’t there, I don’t think I could have. Women are such beautiful creatures — the look a woman gets in her eyes sometimes; the way their hands move, and the way they walk; their voice, the flick of their eyes (lids).

Jerilyn was a cruel, very cruel woman to me in every aspect of my life. She first berated and beat me, tormented me. She didn’t let me attend sex-education class, so I had to sit outside the classroom the whole week. When I curiously viewed a porn magazine, discovering masturbation in the process, I tried to draw some pictures of nude women and people having sex on 5×7 index cards. She found the cards and humiliated me by taking them to the Bishop of the church. There I was chastised and punished (I wasn’t allowed to participate in blessings or pass sacrament) all because I had discovered my own sexuality. They made me feel ashamed of something I shouldn’t have been ashamed of and something that should have remained a secret for a while. Jerilyn fucked me up in the head in a lot of ways.

I’ve got to start trying harder to heal some of these wounds, because I don’t want to be completely fucked up in the head. I need to find a balance of sanity and insanity. It’s okay to be a lil bit fucked up. You see the world more clearly that way. But to be completely messed up is just distortion.

Jerilyn beat me over a t-shirt one time. She didn’t love me in the least, she didn’t want me. She put me in mental hospitals and group homes, but never relinquished full custody of me, or at least, kept it for quite some time. For what though? She never once visited, never once called, never planned on bringing me home. Once I saw her outside my room talking to a staff member. I got excited, thinking she’d brought my sisters to visit me. Hell no, she gave the staff an earful, dropped off two trash bags of clothes, and I never saw her again.

I spent my childhood with my heart engulfed in flames of anger and pain. I still feel it a lot sometimes. I picked up some hurtful habits along the way. Maybe I shouldn’t mess myself up anymore. In a twisted sort of way I like it, but I know my limitations. No “professional” could ever help me with my “issues.” Yeah, I’ve got issues. So fucking what? They’re mine. I’m alright though. The truth is I’m tired of ruining myself. Maybe I used to enjoy it sometimes in some sick sort of way. Someone told me the other day that my imagination ran away with me. Yeah, that happens on occasion. The fantasies are nice, but do the lies placate? Turning the page now, because I’m not sure I have the sensible answer for that. Probably, no, but maybe sometimes, for a little while.

I was thinking of my poem “House Of Cards.” You take all this time and careful effort to build up a cool little house, then one little mistake, it crumbles down. Life can be like a house of cards. You work hard to build something, and it comes crashing down. A mistake. Even something that was perceived in a way other than was meant. It’s better just not to try sometimes. Just be quiet. Sometimes my insecurities make me try too hard and I mess up. I’ve got this fucked up feeling burrowed deep in my heart that I’ve fucked up something again. I don’t want to. For no reason. I was joking around, and it’s not a god-damned joke. I don’t want to always kick myself in the fucking teeth (metaphorically speaking) all the time, but I kinda feel mad at myself a bit and want to punch myself in the face. I’m not going to though. I probably haven’t done that for the last time in my life, but I’m not going to right now. Not right now. Not at this moment. Not at this time. Not over these shadow feelings of failure and resurrecting self loathing. I loath myself when I’m messing it all up. I don’t want to. I’ve got that feeling in my heart, but I’m not sure, which is good and nerve wracking at the same time.

In this Alice In Chains song, the lyrics go “When it’s all gone wrong, it’s hard to be strong.” I like that. TIme to listen to music to get my mind off fucking up–I’ll try some AC/DC, “Highway to Hell.” I’ll try to make everything alright.

From → Art, BLOG

One Comment
  1. You put a lot out there. Something I pick up on is a self-fulfilling prophecy of destruction. You believe that you are unworthy of good things because of how you were taught to see yourself as a kid/young adult. And so, you never allow good things to happen to yourself. When something good begins to happen (relationship, work, good feelings, etc) you then sabotage it by “fucking up”, which then reconfirms the only narrative you’ve ever know, that you are unworthy. It is hard to let good things happen to us– are we worthy? Am I good enough? All houses are built on foundations and until we “love ourselves”– yes, I know, that sounds corny” but until we care enough to let good things become us, we can never build a stable house. Start by accepting the past, for it cannot be changed. Build on that. I am what I am. And don’t “worry” about tomorrow– that is, don’t project your failures into the future. Take care of today. Be good today. Be loved today. Build your house on today. Take care, Jason


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