I think I walked in a rabbit hole that the only way out of is thru. One door opens the next which opens the next and then the need to open the next to explain the last and what you get I guess Is a life story. Or at least someones retelling of that tale.
I can hear my father say after reading any of this “well he’s got quite an imagination ”
But here’s what happens in a household of abuse. It gets whittled down. It fades over time. A felony becomes a misdemeanor. A misdemeanor becomes like nothing at all. Or what are you so sensitive about?
A small conciliation of a bad childhood. “I regret not being the type of father to not have played catch with you more” was like a mantra from my dad in this subject. Just a line on repeat with nothing but hot air and indifference in it. But really dad? Play catch. Remember what happened last time we tried that?
In short a lifetime of abuse gets whittled down to almost nothing at all.
The last time I took the temperature on his state of mind regarding me. Or the last time I got any feedback from the rabble rouser at the center of the hi jinx. Mom.
She said well he’s still talking about how the time you two were in vegas and how that blew any real chance at his attempt to really connect. Allow me to explain
My folks loved vegas.
Cocaine and vegas. That was their deal.
They missed one of my early birthdays. 8 or 9. Something like that because they went to vegas.
That was a shock to me. Birthdays were supposed to be a time to celebrate with each other I had thought. My mom explained she was sorry they would miss my birthday but they brushed it over with a nice gift. Did some lines and went to vegas.
My dad loved vegas. That was really as far as his mind stretched in terms of needing to see the world.
Vegas was like a one stop shop
The illusion of the whole world. The glamor. None of the substance or very little. I remember going there as a kid. They took us sometimes. I loved circus circus and they would give us some decent cash and off we would go to learn about the architecture of addiction with our pockets full of bad ideas.
The mentality was always malls. Chain stores. Restaurants with shitty food. Bob Evans was my dads favorite and he thought spending money on food was stupid. But gambling and drugs and drink would all his funds sink.
He played the stock market
And would lose enough money for my mom to send the fear thru us all that they’ve lost nearly everything. And she would add that he’s out of control. Playing victim to it all herself. And I always saw her that way. I had too. I’ve learned now that that’s for survival. You can’t see the full scope of the situation you’re in as a kid or you’d die. So you invent and project. And protect yourself in delusion. And dreams. That’s it. The power of your dreams are the only protection you have. That’s why my dreams are everything. To me.
I feel like the writing of this is akin to being in a predicament that there is no way out of at this point but thru.
And I could even widen the context of the real time betrayal which lead me here. Not as a form of retribution and revenge tho obviously those factors are in the mix and not a mix of my making.
But my story is coming out of me now because of the work I did up til now to heal from the recent onslaught.
My story is coming out of me. I stop writing and there is no other option available but to keep writing. It’s like a river there is no way of holding back. And I also can’t write this way without sharing it. It’s a necessary part. And one I have to continue to remind myself of as my programming wires me to keep a secret. I can’t keep it anymore. I guess you guys couldn’t either.
In a way it’s y’all who said ” hey baby it’s go time”
I mean I would never have approached this work I’m doing. The healing and the writing of it had the situation not demanded it.
Which brings up the complicated issue of exposing a story like mine in a modern world where everyone is connected and the players in the story are still alive and tuning in.
It’s different than writing a book but that’s because there still real time factors and bullshit going around now.
The narrative had become and I suspect this is often the case.
“Well the past was bad. But once the old man quit drinking. (Which he did a month after I moved out of the house. Ugh. I was like are you fucking kidding me. Now he quits) things have been better. Right?
There was no more throwing me around physically and the abuse went mostly under my radar. (Programming) except for times when things would get “bad ” again.
But again that would brushed under a rug thru time and then the drone of play acted family dynamic would continue until the next obvious explosion. The truth is nothing changes. And it hasn’t changed. Obviously the range and options of abuse for them has been considerably shrunken. But they showed some recent new flare. They got some of that classic magic from their greatest hits back.
And it lead me here.
To the truth.
And the truth when it’s speaking thru you doesn’t want to be silenced. The truth refuses to be.
It’s a complicated sauce of emotions and realities all forging together which lead me here to this conclusion. And thank god it did. Because before that I was secretly dying and maybe not so secretly wanting to be dead.
But I didn’t intend to tell my story. Not the way it just came out. Or is coming out. (Stay tuned to future chapters where I’ll be coming out) 😉
It’s not that I was too afraid to tell on them. I was too afraid to tell on me.
Plain and simple
And I suspect that’s the way I’d have coasted off into oblivion had the psychopath not come in and utterly devastated any illusion I had that I had anything all put together. At all.
This makes me laugh when I write it.
Because taken in wider context it’s as if she was the exact right medicine for me to take to see the truth of the whole picture. And then my family came thru with Snakeskin grand finale and another string which could only spell out for me the awful truth that they won’t you gone.
And as I type the story coming out.
There’s so fucking much.
I can understand why they wanted me silenced. I suppose I did pose a very real indeed.
Which is the other side. A pragmatic side and also a healing journey side. I think it’s common knowledge that for those of us raised in abuse we simply must tell our tales in order to move on. Certainly there are millions of accounts with horrors like mine and beyond. And most those writers say how it was necessary for them to heal.
I guess ideally your parents have left the building when you tell your story, but I’m 45 years old. Soon to be 46. My life recently almost ended as a direct result of keeping all this submerged.
I don’t want to wait another ten or twenty years to get free. I need to get free now.
The real time players in this, aren’t just awe shucks over there being all innocent. No there last major swipe at me was recent as a motherfucker.
There’s still people I love involved who I need protection and who also need me to be strong and ready if they need to bounce.
And let me have a side note.
This lovely Indian man at the deluxe inn.
We’ve become friends on my couple of nights stay.
I walked after writing that flood which made me cry and cry and cry. I was fasting I guess. I needed to eat. Didn’t want to drive so I walked thru the grass along the highway and came upon a BBQ restaurant walked in and asked if they served fish. Talking to the girl and the owner. There was an article about his BBQ on the wall. Got the perk dinner and walked back to my room. Mac cheese and collard greens on the side. And ate. Boy did I eat.
My Indian friend came up to my room to ask me to take a chair inside. I did and apologized for leaving it out there. I told him that restaurant was amazing and that I spoke with the owner, he paused and then I smiled cause I could see it coming. He paused again, looked up had his red third eye thing in the center of his forehead. And I knew it was coming but I saw him consider for a second.
“He’s a black guy right?”
I said yes while cracking up inside. loving the universe for giving this Wes Anderson comedy gold moment in this otherwise pretty dim terrain I’ve been investigating.
That as I write the murk of my subconscious into clarity. It’s profound thing to witness, when these things have been submerged so long. Not letting them have their expression, leading to insanity and death because something’s need to be aired out. In order for us to heal. My motivation is to heal. And to help others heal.
As far as consequences for my family, I believe the truth will set us free.
But I want to say that there are these wonderful moments in all this. Tho I’m writing about darkness. I’m in a rather wonderful place. Tho this is painful story to unfold and I wish it wasn’t as dark as it is.
I can’t change what happened I can only change my relationship to what happened. And believe me when I tell you that that became do or die.
And as I let the shadows out of the closet. Let it be known that in real life terms, my energy is dramatically different with strangers and their response is dramatically different to me. The world is becoming a much more loving place. And I’m becoming a whole and integrated person.
I even hope this heals my family. I even hope that we can be a family. But I won’t follow that hope anymore. I’m simply not allowed too.