Monthly Archives: October 2011

Time For a Good Ole Book Burning on the Village Green

Shel Silverstein is hands down one of the best children’s authors ever.  I own just about everything he’s done in print; hard copy.   And I’m fairly certain that when my Zebra cake goggles wear off, the book will remain one of my favorites.

In light of the recent events of my train wreck love-life, I recently re-read “The Giving Tree.”

…..

…..

Can I just say that I HATE that tree.

“Take my apples.”

oh just plunder all my assets and leave me naked in the forest, boy.

“…you may cut off  my branches….”

Take a chain saw to my limbs and watch the sap run down as I bleed in agony….

“Cut down my trunk….”

Fuck me up the ass and leave me nothing but a stump for you to take a shit on…….

but I’ll still love you boy.

……

……

and then the tree waits and waits like a good empathic tree with no self-esteem does, and pretends to be happy being a used up stump.  and in the end ” the boy” comes back when he’s done using all the whores and he’s old and can’t fuck anymore and sits on the stump of a tree he’s used.   because she has no self-worth and wasted the best years of her life pining (no pun intended) for a boy who never loved her back.

The classic un-requited love story?

No, the classic romanticized portrayal of an EMPATH MARTYR-COMPLEX FUCKED UP WOMAN, POSING AS A TREE

I dunno, this post could be coming from a distorted perceptual lens  generated by marked glucose spikes from me consuming  a rather largish bag of M&M’s for lunch today and a couple of King-sized candy bars for dinner last night mixed with a Little Debbie Zebra cake.  It’s the Zebra Cake goggles isn’t it.  Or is it just another angry rant about getting conned by a sexual sadist narcissist with sociopathic tendencies.  Or do I just have an axe to grind with trees.

Someone either pass me the kerosene and a match or give me another fucking Zebra cake already.


Hurry up with the lobotomy already

I don’t know what’s up with me today.  I’m pumping gas and some guy is staring at me.  At first I assume I must have something on my shirt.  When I look down and realize that I don’t, I start feeling even more nervous.   I want to run and hide and wonder why I didn’t just find a frigin gas station that had no one pumping at it.  Some remote desolate gas station with tumble weed blowing through, like the kind you see on old TV westerns with John Wayne.  Except that’s ridiculous, because tumble weed isn’t indigenous to Massachusetts.

Then I get to the grocery store and I’m picking out a head of lettuce.  Red leaf and romaine are both $2.49, so I stand there paralyzed like a deer in headlights.  Apparently this woman notices this and in an almost chastising way says to me, “it’s not going to jump off the shelf you know.”  But that’s just it.  I can’t make a fucking snap decision between Tropicana Pure Premium orange juice or Minute Maid.

Later, I walk to the post office to mail some seriously over-due bills, and I feel this pain in my left lung.  It comes and goes, every few months.   But because I used to chain smoke I have myself convinced that I’m a sneeze away from terminal small cell carcinoma.  I start actually wondering who would come to my funeral, my wake, screwed up shit like that.  In under a minute, my catastrophic thinking has me dead and buried.  All from a pain in my lung…..Who fucking thinks like this?

Maybe…….just maybe……… this has something to do with seeing my ex  yesterday.

He’s the ex-boyfriend, Daddy Dominant, sorry….. the sexual sadist. The man I’ve gone back to a thousand times after he’s treated me less than dog shit.   As we stood there in a parking lot to exchange an important document, he told me in a voice void of any emotion, that he was heading out to fuck a 27-year-old at a local motel and didn’t have long.  He is 52.  He doesn’t even know her first name and will never see her after today, but he will “use her til she’s raw.”

Tears began to well up in my eyes and I felt like I was going to puke when he said that.   He went on callously, “I’m sorry, but right now, sex with strangers is my number one priority.  Maybe someday I’ll want to stop, now I don’t.  I won’t ever forget you….you’ll always be my girl.  I think it’s best not to call me anymore, for your own good.”

His words hung in the air like a garrote, suffocating the last bit of air between us.  And as I sobbed, he approached me and stiffly put his arms around me for what seemed like a long time, except that I didn’t feel any emotions coming from him.  It felt almost obligatory, staged, a mere perfunctory task that  he must execute before moving to his next destination.

I can cook a mean lasagna.

I can give great head.

I can speak in several fake foreign accents and make everyone in the room laugh their ass off while doing them.

As a trained mental health counselor, I can de-escalate psychotic, suicidal, severely agitated, anxious patients in a locked ward.

I can read books to small children with enough enthusiasm to have special requests for” just one more”.

But for the life of me, I can’t love myself enough to walk away from him…..


About You

I left out the “”About You” section about me here blank.  It feels too much like a personal ad, and that triggers me too much.

The last time I put a personal ad out online it was a fucking disaster.  I ended up with a reply from one man who referred to me in the third person.  “I need me a female between the age of 19 and 25 and require it to be 5′ 5″ and 120 pounds.”

Oh I’m sorry.  Did you just say “it” you sick son-of-fa-bitch?  Because I’m going to wager that the last time you saw a ‘female’ was the storm of 78′. Yeah remember? as you dragged her dead corpse behind your oversized-duel exhaust jacked-up truck with that long metal chain after you chloroformed her and clunked her about her head with a crow bar? back to your rural farm of horrors for a night of good ol’ Square dancing and necrophilia fun.

Mmmmmm, yeah….does that ring a bell now?

Men who refer to women as “it” and “female” as if they are specimens scare me.  There is a level of objectification that is just downright frightening.

Almost as scary was the reply I got from a man living in his mom’s basement.  No, he was in his 40’s and wasn’t down on his luck, he had never left…..like ever.  Very Norman Bates-esque.  Any man who feels comfortable banging his date while his mom listens to her squeal like a pig…..well, the cogs just aren’t firing right upstairs.   Just saying.   A little too close to home I’m thinkin, in a cousins with dozens sort of way.  (shivers).

I always thought the perfect man was Fred Rogers.  He was my hero.  You know Mr. Rogers Neighborhood?  I go to an Al-anon meeting with a woman who knew him and she said he was just as nice in person as he was on the show. When I was small he was a bright spot on my otherwise sometimes dark childhood. I felt as if he truly cared, for me.

I cried for a long time when he died.

*Raises glass to Mr.Rogers*


“Normal” is a setting on a washing machine.

I don’t know exactly what normal is supposed to be.  But I know I’m not it.

Normal isn’t sitting at Thanksgiving dinner while everyone else is yapping about how they upgraded their living room with the latest and trendiest color themes, while you are recalling yourself being tied and blindfolded to a tree in the woods while your Daddy Dominant whips you with his flogger and cane til your tits have welts wearing nothing but a pair of stiletto heels.

“Ummm yes, pass the green beans Uncle Bill.”

Normal isn’t sitting in your apartment knowing your “Daddy” is probably out with some new submissive in a motel somewhere, because he hasn’t answered his phone in several hours and his AA meeting only lasts one hour.  And normal sure isn’t spending half the night casing the local motels when you drove by the AA clubhouse and proved your theory was correct, your sponsor and friends says he never showed.

Yes Mom, I’d like some gravy on the turkey.

Normal sure isn’t dumping said boyfriend after three years because that’s what normal people do, but you’re not normal, you seem to be addicted to him,  he’s like your “fix”. Every time you try to leave, it feels like your dying inside.  So you’d rather have lit cigarettes put out on your flesh than feel that pain…..and you’ve done that.  You’d rather drink until cognition ceases to function, and you’ve done that too….. than feel that pain.  You’d rather have Daddy take his cane to your flesh until you bleed, and not safeword out, to prove you’re not a wimp, than to risk him leaving.  You don’t want to risk him finding some new younger, version of you with a more pert ass and a new boob job; so you tolerate his sadism because you know that’s one thing “they” can’t do.  They, don’t have your history, and won’t be able to tolerate or allow him to do any of the things you can physically withstand because he is a sexual sadist.  Normal.  Yes, this is normal. THIS! staying in this feels safer to you, than to feel the pain of him leaving you behind.

“Yes Grandma, I think I will pass on the pecan pie, I’m trying to watch my waistline.”

“Normal, is a setting on a washing machine” someone once told me, “and that’s about it.”  They went on, “there is no such thing as normal.”  I took some comfort in that, I really did.  But deep down, I knew that I wanted to be. Somewhere deep inside me, the healthy seedling in me was germinating.  I started setting limits with him.  Taking small steps.

The truth was, I am not a masochist.  I hate pain.  I only endured it so he wouldn’t throw me away.  He always promised me that if I did these “things”, I would be his good girl.

The way it rolled off his tongue….it was as if the promise of coming home has been re-awakened right then.

Maybe this Thanksgiving, I’m a tiny bit closer to normal than last year~


Woman-girl

When I was only eight years old I remember walking around the neighborhood just before dark. I would peer into the homes just around suppertime. I could smell wonderful things cooking as they wafted through the air. I would occasionally stop and see a family sitting down to eat through their front window. I’d stop and stand there, eyes transfixed. “Could this be what a family is like?” I thought. They seemed so peaceful, happy even, smiling as they ate together. There was no belt on their kitchen table. They’re allowed to talk during dinner.

To be loved, I wanted that so badly……. that it actually ached inside my little chest.

I knew I wasn’t cute enough, smart enough, or good enough. I held fast to the idea that one of my teachers might “see” how badly I wanted rescuing from my home. If I just was nice enough, they might take me home in their back pocket and give me a new life. But…. that never did happen.

No one ever knew the shit that went on in my house behind the picket white fence.

Months turned to years and my fantasy of finding a “home”,  someone to adopt
me and rescue me from the hellish existence took on new form. As I entered
womanhood, I stumbled rather curiously into my own untapped potential of
sexuality.

However sex to became a perversion, a remnant of my past, that I wanted
to stay buried. Wreckage of painful childhood memories, its unspeakable trauma and hidden scars, left sexuality for me inexplicably fused with terror.

Men looked at me and seemingly wanted me or so I thought. The opportunity for love came rushing to the forefront again. But I was a quick study and inherently knew, they didn’t want me, but what was between my legs. And so began a deep-seated anger. I resented men. For I wanted their love, their affection and they only wanted sex.

Sex; used to hurt me as a child.
Used as a game, a weapon, to exploit me, humiliate me,  abuse me
.

How on earth would I ever find a home now? The broken child trapped inside still in search of love and safety she never found. How on earth I pondered would I ever find my way there now?

I hated my body, it had betrayed me.

I hated myself for being such an unlovable damaged piece of shit.  Twisted dreams of going home, that shouldn’t exist any longer.  Is there a place for the woman-girl I am?

My dream of finding love, of finding home seemed as elusive as it ever had before, and fading fast….


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