Every betrayal contains a perfect moment; A coin stamped heads or tails, with salvation on the other side...
Today, I can feel the pang of hurt in my chest when I think her name. Dearest grandmother. Can you imagine my surprise when you betrayed me? Can you imagine how deeply this scar runs? Further than my heart and my mind, even? Into my subconcious, my nights, my days, my every thought - You've tainted me with your vile mistakes. I wonder, even, if you admit to yourself what you've done. What you did. What you still do. You remained in love with my torture, more literally than I'd like to say. To it alone, were you loyal. You gazed into it's eyes, and saw nothing of the truth. Not because you are blind, but because you chose to shut your eyes.
Dear Grandmother,
Can you see me now? Hindered by my mistrust? Collapsing under my disorder? Do you ever see pictures of me, and think of the harm you caused? Do you ever see the innocence in those old photos and remind yourself how you assisted in it's murder? Co-conspirator in the ruin of my mind? Of my life? Do the eyes you imagine behind the lense torture you and turn your stomach to glass, forever pricking and cutting and remaining sharp, like mine?
Do you ever think to yourself that you are no better than the culprits themselves? I do. Sometimes, I think you're worse.
When I think of them, I am disgusted. I am hurt. I think of how they might blame me, how they would tell everyone around that I ruined them with my confessions, the poor things... I think also of how they escaped... And with your assistance...
When I think of you, I think of a perfect moment in an instance of greatest betrayal. I think of the time in the black truck, while you sat and lied to my tear-stained face, telling me you believed me, and then turning your back on me. If you believed me... If you still believe me, how can you go on? Knowing what you did? How you left me? Can you imagine me crying, without a shred of innocence or happiness left inside my little body? Does it hurt you?
It hurts me. More than any physical wound ever could. Worse than death, on the best of days... Though I've internalized my screams and my tears. You won't hear me cry out, again. Not for anything.
Not to worry, though, right? Because surely when I think of those that need forgiveness, you are not the first person I think of. Surely other tortures come to mind, and stand out like slivers of brightest red in the darkness. But you are the last, and the most painful. I trusted you, blindly. I put faith in you when you claimed to love me, and care for me. I trusted that my Grandmother would protect me. What a fool I was, then.
I want you to lose sleep, like me. I want your apology. I want you to admit your crimes.
I also want to pretend I don't already know that you won't. I'd like to play pretend in a world where your heart isn't black and your concience screams into your ears like a train thrown from it's tracks. I want to make believe that you cry to yourself when no one is around. That your guilt not only exists, but eats you alive. That you feel what I feel; that you look in the mirror with a look of disgust and unrest on your face. I want to believe that you can't sleep. That you're forever plauged by nightmares, like me.
You little cowardly thing... How did I ever love you? How do I continue?
Forget-me-not.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Something of Hypocrisy.
You cannot give forgiveness to someone who is still lurking in the dark, too weak to admit they need it.
I went to church the other day with Rebecca, and sat and listened to the pastor as he spoke of respect and forgiveness... And I heartily disagreed with nearly every word.
First, he spoke of having respect for your elders, despite whatever wicked or cruel actions they have performed, and having respect for their positions... I do not believe that respect is a right.
I do not believe that because you might have a couple of gray hairs on your head, that you somehow have earned respect, and can do whatever you'd like to me without consequence. This may have worked a long time ago, when corruption was uncommon and shocking, but now, the differences are heavy. Adults rape and hurt children more often than playground bullys. Murder is commonplace and widespread. Greed, lust, hate, discrimination. All of this and more, belonging not just to those of us that are not old enough to know better, but to those we are supposed to endlessly respect and trust.
No, my respect for you, and my trust for you, will come with time and will be more true and honest than any brand of respect you will recieve from those who believe it is your right. Instead of putting myself at risk, I will give you a brand of respect that means something.
My forgiveness, as well. There are few people that come to mind when I think of forgiveness, and their crimes are more serious than anything I've ever known. I am told that nothing is more healing, more cleansing, than forgiving those who have harmed you... The Pastor approached me specifically to tell me this. Let go of your rage, silly child. Forgive their "sins".
But do you not think I hold my grudges for good reason? And how do I forgive those that will not come forward and ask for it? My pursuers hide in the dark, too weak to face what they've done, and as long as they hide there, my forgiveness will elude them.
I do not believe they even think of it, and of what it could mean.
The damaged, as they are blamed by the guilty, cannot forgive what is not ended.
Would you ask me to forgive something you've done, even as you were doing it?
I went to church the other day with Rebecca, and sat and listened to the pastor as he spoke of respect and forgiveness... And I heartily disagreed with nearly every word.
First, he spoke of having respect for your elders, despite whatever wicked or cruel actions they have performed, and having respect for their positions... I do not believe that respect is a right.
I do not believe that because you might have a couple of gray hairs on your head, that you somehow have earned respect, and can do whatever you'd like to me without consequence. This may have worked a long time ago, when corruption was uncommon and shocking, but now, the differences are heavy. Adults rape and hurt children more often than playground bullys. Murder is commonplace and widespread. Greed, lust, hate, discrimination. All of this and more, belonging not just to those of us that are not old enough to know better, but to those we are supposed to endlessly respect and trust.
No, my respect for you, and my trust for you, will come with time and will be more true and honest than any brand of respect you will recieve from those who believe it is your right. Instead of putting myself at risk, I will give you a brand of respect that means something.
My forgiveness, as well. There are few people that come to mind when I think of forgiveness, and their crimes are more serious than anything I've ever known. I am told that nothing is more healing, more cleansing, than forgiving those who have harmed you... The Pastor approached me specifically to tell me this. Let go of your rage, silly child. Forgive their "sins".
But do you not think I hold my grudges for good reason? And how do I forgive those that will not come forward and ask for it? My pursuers hide in the dark, too weak to face what they've done, and as long as they hide there, my forgiveness will elude them.
I do not believe they even think of it, and of what it could mean.
The damaged, as they are blamed by the guilty, cannot forgive what is not ended.
Would you ask me to forgive something you've done, even as you were doing it?
Friday, October 8, 2010
Another Wasted Chance
To live is to be marked. To live is to change - to die a hundred deaths.
What was the first sign that told me that I was different? Was it the three day periods I spent with potentials before I would run away screaming? Was it the happy feelings that were more fleeting than fireworks, and as beautiful?
My therapist has not called, and it has been weeks. I find myself more than a little bit annoyed - though also relieved. I don't want to see her anymore. Not because I believe therapy has done nothing for me, but because I know she knows everything I spit through my teeth at her, and for that, I cannot stand her. I wonder if this is simply because I cannot ever tell anyone the little details that ruin me, or if it is because she was a stranger, and will remain so, always? I do not know this woman who knows my secrets, and I do not like her.
I know I should call. I should call and ask to be scheduled for an appointment... But I did call. She simply never called back. Perhaps a new therapist. A new face.
I could do it. All I have to do is fill out a little piece of paper with brutal honesty, and they would waste no time scheduling me for appointments. Once a week. Maybe even twice, if they knew the whole of it.
I want there to be a quick fix. I'm sure everyone does. But for what I have? There are only prayers, and I am tired of waiting for answers. I used to think I must have done something to deserve all of this - to deserve the acts in themselves, the distrust of my family, their abandonment when I needed them, their abandonment when I didn't, the scorn of people everywhere, and this disorder. This horrible monster that sits in my brain and teases me with thoughts and feelings I'd like to be rid of.
I thought perhaps I'd enjoy some sort of group therapy, but no. No, because this thing varies from person to person. It is so unique, and at the same time so common. So common, in fact, that no one I know shares my symptoms. How very frustrating.
Can you imagine what it's like for me to hear you all complain? Oh, he broke my heart. Suzie's a drama queen. I just got dumped. He never calls me back. She only sends one worded texts. He never has the time for me...
Yeah? I am so terribly sorry. I try so incredibly hard to be sympathetic, but it gets difficult. I cannot relate.
I really like him, but he might not like me.
Oh? Well, how will you go on?!
It's like hearing someone complain they don't know a word in a book when you'd give anything to read. Words with meanings, with beauty, with stories to tell, and I cannot have a word of it. I'm very sorry the word "ambivalant" confused you, as you immersed yourself in a world I'd kill for, but don't you see the value of the other words? Are you so used to these stories, now, that you cannot see their beauty?
Tell me again, the one about the boy you like.
Oh, how I do love a fairy tale.
What was the first sign that told me that I was different? Was it the three day periods I spent with potentials before I would run away screaming? Was it the happy feelings that were more fleeting than fireworks, and as beautiful?
My therapist has not called, and it has been weeks. I find myself more than a little bit annoyed - though also relieved. I don't want to see her anymore. Not because I believe therapy has done nothing for me, but because I know she knows everything I spit through my teeth at her, and for that, I cannot stand her. I wonder if this is simply because I cannot ever tell anyone the little details that ruin me, or if it is because she was a stranger, and will remain so, always? I do not know this woman who knows my secrets, and I do not like her.
I know I should call. I should call and ask to be scheduled for an appointment... But I did call. She simply never called back. Perhaps a new therapist. A new face.
I could do it. All I have to do is fill out a little piece of paper with brutal honesty, and they would waste no time scheduling me for appointments. Once a week. Maybe even twice, if they knew the whole of it.
I want there to be a quick fix. I'm sure everyone does. But for what I have? There are only prayers, and I am tired of waiting for answers. I used to think I must have done something to deserve all of this - to deserve the acts in themselves, the distrust of my family, their abandonment when I needed them, their abandonment when I didn't, the scorn of people everywhere, and this disorder. This horrible monster that sits in my brain and teases me with thoughts and feelings I'd like to be rid of.
I thought perhaps I'd enjoy some sort of group therapy, but no. No, because this thing varies from person to person. It is so unique, and at the same time so common. So common, in fact, that no one I know shares my symptoms. How very frustrating.
Can you imagine what it's like for me to hear you all complain? Oh, he broke my heart. Suzie's a drama queen. I just got dumped. He never calls me back. She only sends one worded texts. He never has the time for me...
Yeah? I am so terribly sorry. I try so incredibly hard to be sympathetic, but it gets difficult. I cannot relate.
I really like him, but he might not like me.
Oh? Well, how will you go on?!
It's like hearing someone complain they don't know a word in a book when you'd give anything to read. Words with meanings, with beauty, with stories to tell, and I cannot have a word of it. I'm very sorry the word "ambivalant" confused you, as you immersed yourself in a world I'd kill for, but don't you see the value of the other words? Are you so used to these stories, now, that you cannot see their beauty?
Tell me again, the one about the boy you like.
Oh, how I do love a fairy tale.
A Possibility Of Balance.
"Father, forgive me wherever you are, but this world has brought one vile abomination after another down on the heads of the gentle, and I'll not live to see the meek inherit anything. What there IS in this world, I think, is a tendancy for human errors to level themselves like water throughout their sphere of influence. There's a possibility of balance. Unbearable burdens that the world somehow does bear with a certain grace."
Today, I'm just inspired. There is light and dark on the horizon, but the horizon remains, and that is what I choose to look at. Not the sun, and not the moon, but where they meet the ground, and shake hands with some form of solemn merriment. This is the place where I have found my counterparts.
I rely greatly on my friends... and I try and try to always remind myself of how much they put into me and my life. Maybe they try endlessly, and tire - or maybe it comes naturally to them, but either way, they are my balance. The bad is somehow leveled with the good in me and my friends. They counter my dark moods, and make the days worth waking for.
"With nothing else to hope for, I lean towards my friends, waiting, while the past grows heavy and my future narrows down to a crack in the door."
I love you all, immeasurably.
Today, I'm just inspired. There is light and dark on the horizon, but the horizon remains, and that is what I choose to look at. Not the sun, and not the moon, but where they meet the ground, and shake hands with some form of solemn merriment. This is the place where I have found my counterparts.
I rely greatly on my friends... and I try and try to always remind myself of how much they put into me and my life. Maybe they try endlessly, and tire - or maybe it comes naturally to them, but either way, they are my balance. The bad is somehow leveled with the good in me and my friends. They counter my dark moods, and make the days worth waking for.
"With nothing else to hope for, I lean towards my friends, waiting, while the past grows heavy and my future narrows down to a crack in the door."
I love you all, immeasurably.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
We Are Mistaken.
People Fear what they do not understand, and Hate what they cannot conquer.
- Fear and Hate, the two twins humanity battles continuously - and loses.
This quite literally explains just about every rash action one person has ever imposed on another. People are cowards in that they are more than willing - they are thrilled! - to ignore truth in favor of whatever falsehood best suits their fanatical views of the world and the beings and forces within it. They hate the contradictions, the mysteries; things they cannot control.
And we are all too aware of their love of control... The only real mystery to me is why I (and many other people) remain surprised each and every time one of our kind commits an act exhibiting this perverted nature of ours; the likes of which we, as humans, are compelled to. After all, we are what they are. Shouldn't we know that it is inevitable that, more often than not, the people around us will give in to our human, selfish instincts?
As a matter of fact, we are less surprised when something we don't understand behaves evilly than when the very instincts we attempt to supress each and every day lead one of us to behave that way... Is this because we consider all other creatures somehow below us? Heathen, because of their differences and therefore more wild and evil? In the wild, who's to say what is evil, anyway?
Or is it because we don't understand, and therefore fear the other (admittedly more innocent) creatures, expecting the worst of them?
We are ridiculously mistaken in our placement of trust.
- Fear and Hate, the two twins humanity battles continuously - and loses.
This quite literally explains just about every rash action one person has ever imposed on another. People are cowards in that they are more than willing - they are thrilled! - to ignore truth in favor of whatever falsehood best suits their fanatical views of the world and the beings and forces within it. They hate the contradictions, the mysteries; things they cannot control.
And we are all too aware of their love of control... The only real mystery to me is why I (and many other people) remain surprised each and every time one of our kind commits an act exhibiting this perverted nature of ours; the likes of which we, as humans, are compelled to. After all, we are what they are. Shouldn't we know that it is inevitable that, more often than not, the people around us will give in to our human, selfish instincts?
As a matter of fact, we are less surprised when something we don't understand behaves evilly than when the very instincts we attempt to supress each and every day lead one of us to behave that way... Is this because we consider all other creatures somehow below us? Heathen, because of their differences and therefore more wild and evil? In the wild, who's to say what is evil, anyway?
Or is it because we don't understand, and therefore fear the other (admittedly more innocent) creatures, expecting the worst of them?
We are ridiculously mistaken in our placement of trust.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
The Remnants of an Afternoon
It strikes me as odd that so much effort is required of me in order to behave normally, when it should come naturally. - Natural, normal. - The two should be relatively synonomous. But for me, they are as distinct as night and day. Night is my natural, where everything unusual and unrelated to the mundane crouches - ready to pounce on the smallest insight into normal behavior on my part. Normal? That is daytime, as sure as I'm alive. Everything I would like to be in several categories is "Normal". What a wonderful thing to have as your own. Normality.
Of course, that isn't to say I wouldn't enjoy being slightly abnormal in some ways... As a matter of fact, I rejoice in the differences between me and most other people I know... But in some areas, in some private place in my mind, I would love to do the things they do so naturally. Every difference I have seems to have come with a price.
Today, I sat in the mall food court with Rebecca, and I saw my computers teacher, alone, wandering up to buy food. I watched her, and halfheartedly tried to attract her attention. However, once she had gotten her food and I figured getting her attention wouldn't be in my best interest (due to the fact that I skipped her class today), I looked away.
Looked away, only to look back and feel every bit of normality I had felt in the seconds before drip out of me like so much sludge. She sat at a table with a little blonde girl - her younger double in many ways - as young as 10, perhaps. I wasn't jealous of the child... I could have one of my own someday. No, it was the way they were smiling and carrying on.
My mom was there, sure. I hope this doesn't sound as though she wasn't. I just looked at the primly dressed teacher, and I knew that she had a husband at home, that beautiful daughter, a good job, and that smile. I envied that smile so much and with such green eyes I thought the smile itself might leap off her face and hide from me. Even worse, I wondered if she was even aware of how lucky she was. Her, or the daughter. Because not only did she have the family I did not, but she was able to aquire it.
While I am here in ruins.
...People leave remnants of themselves everywhere they are seen. In hallways of schools, on streets, and in parks. Faces and memories haunt and please everyone around, without discrimination. We see evidence of them everywhere we go, as though these past people frequently and casually lobbed off personality traits, smiles, and tears everywhere they went, if only to leave a trace.
The only difference from person to person is what we see. What we are reminded of. And that is what sets me apart from my dear computers teacher, and her beautiful family. That is what sets me apart from you.
The Remnants of an Afternoon.The remnants of an afternoon
Are haunting as the harvest moon -
Taking over night and sky,
And leaving out the reason why
We had remembered them so soon.
Mem'rys quick and solid, true,
Never lying - never new
But older in their oldest ways;
They bring us back unto the days
We wished to leave and not to rue.
But unforgotten mem'rys are
Always near, and never far;
Never really leaving home -
Yet every where we ought to rome -
And beyond that, they're who we are.
Of course, that isn't to say I wouldn't enjoy being slightly abnormal in some ways... As a matter of fact, I rejoice in the differences between me and most other people I know... But in some areas, in some private place in my mind, I would love to do the things they do so naturally. Every difference I have seems to have come with a price.
Today, I sat in the mall food court with Rebecca, and I saw my computers teacher, alone, wandering up to buy food. I watched her, and halfheartedly tried to attract her attention. However, once she had gotten her food and I figured getting her attention wouldn't be in my best interest (due to the fact that I skipped her class today), I looked away.
Looked away, only to look back and feel every bit of normality I had felt in the seconds before drip out of me like so much sludge. She sat at a table with a little blonde girl - her younger double in many ways - as young as 10, perhaps. I wasn't jealous of the child... I could have one of my own someday. No, it was the way they were smiling and carrying on.
My mom was there, sure. I hope this doesn't sound as though she wasn't. I just looked at the primly dressed teacher, and I knew that she had a husband at home, that beautiful daughter, a good job, and that smile. I envied that smile so much and with such green eyes I thought the smile itself might leap off her face and hide from me. Even worse, I wondered if she was even aware of how lucky she was. Her, or the daughter. Because not only did she have the family I did not, but she was able to aquire it.
While I am here in ruins.
...People leave remnants of themselves everywhere they are seen. In hallways of schools, on streets, and in parks. Faces and memories haunt and please everyone around, without discrimination. We see evidence of them everywhere we go, as though these past people frequently and casually lobbed off personality traits, smiles, and tears everywhere they went, if only to leave a trace.
The only difference from person to person is what we see. What we are reminded of. And that is what sets me apart from my dear computers teacher, and her beautiful family. That is what sets me apart from you.
The Remnants of an Afternoon.The remnants of an afternoon
Are haunting as the harvest moon -
Taking over night and sky,
And leaving out the reason why
We had remembered them so soon.
Mem'rys quick and solid, true,
Never lying - never new
But older in their oldest ways;
They bring us back unto the days
We wished to leave and not to rue.
But unforgotten mem'rys are
Always near, and never far;
Never really leaving home -
Yet every where we ought to rome -
And beyond that, they're who we are.
Monday, October 4, 2010
The Guilty Blame the Damaged.
I find myself torn between spilling my thoughts online - cryptic, but open - with my name attatched to condemn me, or holding it all in to myself. Which is more appealing to me? Expression? Knowing that even so, no one will hear? Or waiting to see who comes looking for what I haven't told?
I've waited a really long time to say everything I've been screaming this past week. When I look online, it amuses me to see that everyone comments on my happy posts - facebook - where the tired facade of optimism draws in readers like flies - and they ignore the truer posts completely. The truth, though people claim to crave it, takes no more priority in their lives than does a speck of dust in a stranger's house. What do they care of our blemishes? Of mine?
I open my mouth countless times each and every day, hinting at what half of me wants everyone to know, and half of me would kill to hide. Cognitive dissonance. Like two keys on a piano who's tones don't match.
Dissonance.
In my family, there is an abundance. An abundance I disassociate myself from, as they disassociated themselves from me so many times when I could have used their presence. Some of my family? They're snakes. They know who they are, and yet sit reassuring themselves that I am the one to blame for whatever gap between us is yet left unbridged. Unbridged, even after I gave chances they didn't earn. Unbridged, even after, once again, they ran from whatever truth I tried to give them, and hid with their tails fixed firmly between their legs. But this is not their fault, in their eyes. They see what they want to see. The fault is mine.
The guilty blame the damaged.
-Enjoy.
The Guilty
Why not use a mirror?
Title what you see as such.
Is that not poetry and condemnation enough?
I've waited a really long time to say everything I've been screaming this past week. When I look online, it amuses me to see that everyone comments on my happy posts - facebook - where the tired facade of optimism draws in readers like flies - and they ignore the truer posts completely. The truth, though people claim to crave it, takes no more priority in their lives than does a speck of dust in a stranger's house. What do they care of our blemishes? Of mine?
I open my mouth countless times each and every day, hinting at what half of me wants everyone to know, and half of me would kill to hide. Cognitive dissonance. Like two keys on a piano who's tones don't match.
Dissonance.
In my family, there is an abundance. An abundance I disassociate myself from, as they disassociated themselves from me so many times when I could have used their presence. Some of my family? They're snakes. They know who they are, and yet sit reassuring themselves that I am the one to blame for whatever gap between us is yet left unbridged. Unbridged, even after I gave chances they didn't earn. Unbridged, even after, once again, they ran from whatever truth I tried to give them, and hid with their tails fixed firmly between their legs. But this is not their fault, in their eyes. They see what they want to see. The fault is mine.
The guilty blame the damaged.
-Enjoy.
The Guilty
Why not use a mirror?
Title what you see as such.
Is that not poetry and condemnation enough?
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