glory! : its so easy to laught, its so easy to hate.. it takes guts to be gentle and kind.. over...

washer

Goodnight my love Remember me as you fall to sleep Fill your pockets with the dust and the memories That rises from the shoes on my feet I won't be back here Though we may meet again I know it's dark outside Don't be afraid Everytime I ever cried from fear Was just a mistake that I made Wash yourself in your tears And build your church On the strength of your faith Please Listen to me Don't let go Don't let this desperate moonlight leave me With your empty pillow Promise me the sun will rise again I too am tired now Embracing thoughts of tonight's dreamless sleep My head is empty My toes are warm I am safe from harm...

Sunday, December 1, 2024

its so easy to laught, its so easy to hate.. it takes guts to be gentle and kind.. over...

my mother and i's terrible relationship never seemed to have an actual start. i do not know who to blame for my transgressions but i learned them from somewhere. she is cold and selfish, even in her good deeds or seemingly selfless acts she finds a way to create tools for guilting, some way to make people feel like the owe her something. me, specifically. if and when she cooks for me she guilts me. when she cooks for my brother, seemingly everyday, she serves him happily. they spend peaceful time together and im stuck in my room. we cant find room for peace. my jubilee approaching and i cannot do anything about it.

she has a strange moral system. she believes anyone could point me as a bitch and her as a madonna. i want to find peace of mind but i havent known peace. my mother blamed me for her alcoholism saying that buzzing my hair at 16 put her on a downward spiral. yesterday, after a fight, i poured myself some whiskey and headed to my room to listen to music and calm myself down. my father (who wont drink, he cannot tolerate bitter flavors) came up to call me an alcoholic.

i have never felt tenderness or love from my mother. i cant bring myself to call her cruel, but she is. she is cold hearted and blames me for the wrongs in our family. i wish she beat me senseless or was neurotic to an extent that her cruelty was tangible, but she didnt. not everyday and never to a broken bone. only when i deserved it. i used to be so small, nowadays i dont think i deserved it. but maybe i did. i was only about seven and she was thirty seven then. she calls me spoiled and a brat. i tried to kill myself when i was five.

i want solidarity but all of my caregivers have beaten me, stabbed me in the back, raped me or abandoned me. maybe its my fault, i am the common denominator. maybe its not. maybe i attract bad people, i am sensitive. i am so sad, i feel like such a failure, i flay myself alive for the masses, i hide in my own draped skin. nothing good has lasted me enough. all bad things greet me in the mornings, cold or warm.

i cant fix myself and i have mutilated myself horribly, this place will be the end of me and i can just hope for death to bring me back into the body of a little baby brewing in someones womb. i hope im given another chance, i dont know if i deserve one, but even then i would like it if i did.

im upset and have to be quiet. defiance brings only violence but quiet resignation is also a fight. to her. i dont know what to do. i told her about family therapy but i dont think we can make it work. i know she would rather me never being born at all. she said that once in a drunken haze, in the kitchen when i was maybe sixteen, maybe eighteen, the years burn and blur. she forgot after and accused me of making things up. my father said hed rather me be completely normal and adjusted, even if it meant a complete tearing down of my character and self. i went to my room and cried until i vomited. maybe its my fault, but they made me. iam not to blame, i did not create myself. the things ive created, the mechanisms and programs i built from clay and spit to be kind and quiet have only been room for them to beat, hence destroy.

i cannot be destroyed, i will always be this and i wish i could delete myself as well. degenerate, as my father called me once. then, he forgot.

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sylvia plath, the bell jar

I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.

Psalm 18: 6-11

In my distress I called upon the Lord, And cried out to my God; He heard my voice from His temple, And my cry came before Him, even to His ears. Then the earth shook and trembled; The foundations of the hills also quaked and were shaken, Because He was angry. Smoke went up from His nostrils, And devouring fire from His mouth; Coals were kindled by it. He bowed the heavens also, and came down With darkness under His feet. And He rode upon a cherub, and flew; He flew upon the wings of the wind. He made darkness His secret place; His canopy around Him was dark waters And thick clouds of the skies.