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led astray

January 2013

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led astray

thanks but...

I am depressed.  I am full of self-loathing and wallowing in the excess.  I am boring myself with my selfishness.  I don't even have a sex drive right now.  And it is pissing me off.  I am angry at myself for being this way.  There is nothing you can do to help.  No kind word or well wish is going to drag me out of this.  I just have to wait it out like all the other times before.  It will pass, like everything, good or bad.  Fuck pills.  Fuck therapy.I don't want things fucking with my brain chemistry.  And I don't need some jackass to charge me $100 an hour to give me insights into my inner workings that I figured out on my own years ago.  I am aware of my shit.  I know why poverty bothers me so much.  I can trace it back to a single event that has sparked my independant streak (yes there is other stuff too, but this was the big one that crystalized my life).  One day as I was getting ready to go to a school I hated, (I was running late, as usual) mother anf stepfather were having a row.  The baby was crying.  Nothing unusual.  I was trying to get the hell out of dodge, because however bad school was, it was better than home.  Then mother caught me on the way out the door.  I thought she was going to yell at me for being late, thus making me later, and I tried to hurry down the stairs.  But she said I wasn't going to school today.  I should go pack.  We were going to Florida to grandma's house.  We were leaving within the hour so I had better pack fast.  On the plane, she bought several small bottles of liquor.  I had the window seat to look out so I didn't see the faces of the stewardesses as they watched my mother get drunk and cry on a plane at 11 in the morning with her infant and teenager sitting next to her.  I don't remember much till later that night at grandmother's house.  Mother of course kept drinking, despite my grandmother's voiced discomfort.  At one point, mother asked me to take the baby for a walk.  I don'y remember why I didn't want to, probably because I was having issues with the baby in addition to the stress of the day.  There was a small argument about it, but I told her I was too tired or something like that.  So she took the baby carriage in one hand and a fresh beer in the other, and started to walk.  Now I had lived with grandma in this house for a year or so and had a friend in the neighborhood.  I was hoping that I could get in touch with him and get some respite from this family drama and even if he wasn't there I could get some air and just forget about it for a little while.  So I went for a walk.  That was one of the worst decisions I have ever made in my life.  And it seems so innocent a thing to do, to go take a walk.  (As I am writing this, it iccurs to me that I don't go for random walks since then.)  Then I saw her.  I tried to turn a corner so she wouldn't see me, but it was too late.  I don't understand how she can be so drunk, but still have such keen senses.  It must be from her own PTSD.  She caught up with me, acting casual, asked me if I was enjoying my walk, commenting on the nice weather.  Then she let go of the carriage.  She grabbed around my neck from behind with her free arm.  The other arm was carrying a beer, as I soon was forced to recall as it smacked into my head.  She was yelling something about me being ungrateful.  But one arm is not enough to hold a flailing teenager, and she wasn't letting go of that beer.  I got free and ran.  I swear, I know of only one other time I have ever run that fast again in my life (the appearance of the Shadow Lord in town and the subsequent sprint down the stairs of doom).  I ran to the house, ran inside, locking doors behind me and in the rest of the house.  I don't think I thought to lock the windows. (In florida, houses of more than one story and/or above ground level are rare, and she could have climbed into any of them with ease.)  I frightened my grandmother.  I told her not to let mother in for any reason.  I told her she had hit me.  I begged her not to let mother in.  But mother had a trump.  She still had the baby.  She told my grandmother she had to be let in because the baby had to be in the house.  But I tell you, the baby was fine.  It was beautiful out.  And when grandma caved, the baby got left outside.  Thus began mother's use of my sister to get to me.  She dove through the door.  I ran, but her anger was faster than my fear.  She knew she had my grandmother, but I didn't think she would let her in.  I wasn't ready.  If I could have reached my old room I could have locked the door and climbed out the window and ran.  I knew the woods nearby.  I could hide.  But she caught me.  She threw me onto the couch.  I wriggles out of her grasp, mostly.  She caught me again, this time I was closer to the floor, so that was where she pinned me.  Face down.  She had a knee on each arm.  She had put down the beer at some point, I don't know when, probably outside in the carriage in preparation for this.  And both fists were free.  They were free all over my head as I thrashed beneath her trying to get free.  But as you know, I am small, and alcohol has many calories, so she was not.  She somehow managed to avoid my face, timing her blows for when my head was turned.  Leave no trace that I could show people as proof.  She wasn't beating me, she was disciplining me.  That's what she would tell them.  Or the one i liked even better, she was defending herself.  The sad part is, I think she really believes that.  So there we are, doing this dance of violence, and between hits, she would speak.  Her face was no longer that of my mother, it was bright red, twisted and swollen, gnashing and snarling, like some nightmare skinless dogface, and from this face came a growl that drowned out everything but the thud of her fists.  "Who feeds you?!?" *THUD*  "Who clothes you" *THUD* "Who puts a roof over your head?!?" *THUD* "HUH??" *THUD* "ANSWER ME!!!" *THUDTHUDTHUD*  So I thought up the most obnoxious answer I had in me.  I am sure that had I not been in the middle of being beaten, I could have thought of something more witty, but at the time, with her knowing how I felt about religion, I smirked and said, "God."  And I snickered.  I came to enough to hear my grandmother begging her to stop it.  I had forgotten she was there.  But in her fear of this monster her daughter had become, she had done the thing for which I forgave her for opening the door in the first place.  She had called the cops.  Now, in this neck of Florida, not much happens.  This was no Miami or Palm Beach.  This was the section people retired to.  The cops got there fast.  Next thing I remember, I was free and standing out on the lawn.  Two men had had to wrestle her to the ground and cuff her.  While they had her face down and were restraining her, I stood there dazed, watching.  She looked up at me with venom, and said, "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"  And looking into her rage, I thought about what she had said while she was beating me, and I hated the answer.  I hated that I was dependant on her for everything.  I hated the point she made, and I hated myself for having to go back to her.  Because she hadn't left any marks, and when DYFS came the next day, they decided I wasn't abused.  But standing there, watching my mother eat grass, I made a vow.  I etched into my neural pathways, if you will, and then highlighted over it, that for all the rest of my life, I would make the answers to those questions be ME.  That I would feed myself, clothe myself, keep a roof over my own head.  And it has stayed with me.  That is why it is hard for me to accept help.  That is why I feel like a failure when I have to borrow money to eat or pay rent.  Not just because they may hold it over my head, like mother ever did, but because I am failing that little girl in me who wants to be free of the mercy of other people.  Because I made a promise to her, any every time I can't afford something I need, I feel like I break it.  That is why I stress about money so much.  It is a means to taking care of myself.  When I can't, I am shamed. 

And now I am shaking.

Comments

I know, and i have come to accept this. But that doesn't mean I feel good about it.
> I would make the answers to those questions be ME.

But you have. There's a difference between being dependant on someone, and sharing. There's more to things than just money, and I'm not the only one willing to trade money for, say, cooking. Or, hells, even just the pleasure of having you around.

I understand a bit of the "poor pride" mentality - hells, I make more than both of my folks combined, so its not like I had a lot when I was growing up, and have a bit of that Cancerian tendency to stockpile. But at the same time, I was raised on a mentality of generousity - you willingly share what you've got with your friends & family, because, well, they're friends & family. Gift-giving blesses twice - blesses the giver, blesses the receiver. So, it's kinda second-nature to me now... since I *can* do things like pay for dinner, I offer. ::shrugs::

I guess that's the reason I like the micro-commune idea - there's it's not like anyone is beholden to anyone else, but so much can be done by a group contribution. (Plus, plenty of company when you're in the mood.)
(((HUG)))