For Mommy Dearest.

Some things can only be said the moment when they arise from the psyche. Other ponderings are best explored over and over and sometimes guided through with the help of some sort of over (and sometimes under) paid professional.

Questions pop up and out in an un-linear fashion preparing conundrums for it’s wonderer.

1. How many patients have you had that have committed suicide?

There is no such thing as “linear” in my world. In my brain all I have come to find is an endless cyclone of various matter picked up along my journey in a chaotic fashion. Nothing has been planned, it just is.

This may not make any type of sense for the person reading this so I invite you to take from it what you will but beg of you not to make any assumptions or pretend that you know where (in my case, at least) this is all coming from.

Lately I have been exploring the possibility of many natural and super natural ideas of where I have come from, and why. Thus it begins:

In the beginning… I knew far too much. Was this a product of intelligence, abuse, prior life/lives? Or was/am I something of a mixture of those things and possibly more ideas that I cannot uncover just yet?

I was abused as a child but as far as I know it wasn’t in a sexual manner, although my behavior suggests differently.

No I was mentally and physically beaten over and over in a cycle. I could smell the fucking cycle in my mother’s house. How close were we to another crash of lightning and un-forsaken tears? I prayed for adulthood so that I could choose to do as I pleased.

No more forced meals, mother dearest. No more cleaning the same fucking spot over and over just to be told it’s still dirty… Like me the child born from her own personal filth. Guilt.

I think it’s possible she hated me and if I were her I would have hated me too. No one should have children at 17. No one with a cocaine habit to chase away their own inner demons that were born out of incidents I have only been lucky enough to pick up small glimpses of.
Here and there like the remnants of a boring old puzzle that has been lost in the backs of dusty closets… While the bulk of them, or the box carrying the rest of the image has long been thrown away.

I could never HAVE anything, for that woman would smash it all and in front of me. I could never leave and explore real youth since she had ruined her own. She had it out for me.
After all of the broken promises, lies, busted lips, lost nick knacks and finally abandonment… She asked me, “Would you rather I move back there? With you?”

With WHO? I am not anyone for you to be concerned with and you aren’t. You are only embarrassed of your little sex working daughter. Gosh to think if your friends knew! And the friends of yours that knew me, expected it. How do they not know how evil you are?

At 4, 8, 11, 19 and every year in between you hated me. You would hate me with your words, your fists and with every attempt I made, you scoffed at it like it was just a poor silly old character in a children’s book or on TV that was made… was written to laugh at.

You cut me down so many times I thought I was 2 inches tall. You said I couldn’t write, couldn’t compete, couldn’t sing. Did you know those were the only things that made me, ME? You took them away. Just like the stacks of papers, gifts, clothes, creations, pictures, that you literally threw away. Were you trying to keep me down so I didn’t rise above you, mother dearest?

I don’t even know you, woman. So why the hell would I want you near me?

A woman that toted me along before I could walk on my own to places, to people, to situations that you allowed to sacrifice my over all wellbeing. I can’t even remember all of them, and I am not so sure that I should. I knew far too much then as I do now but then I kept my mouth shut when I should have shouted.

You shaved my head and made me a warrior though all my strife that I took from you. I took the same abuse at school but I am positive that was your plan as well. Every student, teacher and stranger thought I was a little boy so I became him. That self medicating little weak boy that stuffed his face full of cakes and other delights to forget for one second he was a he and not a she as divinely planned.

Of course this made for even more hatred from you, from the world. I wanted to die as young as ten. Constantly I was compared to prettier daughters from crazier mothers. My grandmother, the one who named me Veronica… she wanted me to be a model like them. Like you mommy dearest.

But no you let it be known that child models didn’t have saddlebags, crooked teeth, or mismatched eyes. Thank you for putting me back in my place once again. Then. At ten.

Maybe you knew the pain of “pretty”. Maybe you striped me of my womanhood (sequens and all) to make me good. To shelter me of what a pretty girl gets from her society. From being made a little adult woman all too soon. Like you.

But I’m not done, Mother dearest. No, not yet… I’ve still yet things to gain and people to do, with this “pretty” little dress on and with a joyfully disguised face full of paint. I will never be like you.