[Remorse]
She was an angry and miserable woman, a very physically wild woman, and no, it's the bastard fact, she never loved me. I was her burden, the unpleasant leaving of my father, the man she hated from the beginning, the one who sowed her rotten and evil field with me.
(She was Catholic you know, too Catholic to do the mercy of a D&C, anyway).
She flung me fiercely to the ground as an infant, unable to address my mindless crying, and strangely enough I remember that moment with startling clarity, though I wasn't yet a year old. This is how I remember it:
There is a huge impact of which I am not aware. I don't feel pain, or I don't remember it: the effect is like being shaken from some deep and painless dream, I don't remember crying but only perhaps its echo, I remember nothing until I hit the carpeted floor beside the crib, and was left staring at the carved white wooden feet of the dresser, less than a foot away; the curious perspective of the floor. I stop crying at once, some half-formed thought of STOP THIS NOW, and stopped everything, atavistic response perhaps of the barely born, survival instinct in the face of parental madness. She is somewhere beyond my feet, a shadow, standing still, stunned perhaps. Now the both of us are made aware of the savagery that will rule us for decades. In this moment I am born to my mother.
Twenty-eight years pass. At eight, she divorces my father: at eleven she marries my pedophile stepfather.
"You can't tell your mom what we do-"
"WHY DON'T YOU JUST STOP, THEN?"
A crumpled bathtowel on the blue-carpet floor; a flimsy hook-lock against the roving invading fierce-handed dickhead mannequin of a man: dragging my bed-mattress into the walk-in closet, securest place I had, and fastening the locks to the tiny wooden door. That door was a foot high, and he was old enough to have arthritis: he couldn't come in there. Safe, among pinned-up Nine Inch Nails CD covers, Vertigo comic panels, glow-in-the-dark stars crowded close on the angled ceiling of the tiny walk in closet where I slept.
"FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU!"
No, I can't tell everything, I can't, there's no room, there's no strength to do that tonight, let me tell you about the moment when I died:
I am living with her again, many years later: I have avoided her assiduously: it doesn't matter how it happened, the backstory like so much of my past is detritus --
But again, for the last time in my life the bitch slapped me.
"LEAVE ME BE," I had cried in an ecstasy of horror that I was already dealing with my foul mouthed now-ex and now this, she crowds up and harangues me, I have displeased the Red Queen, fuck this bitch--!
And she slapped me across the face.
And the veil did drop, and the shadow did fall over, and I said something, closing the refrigerator and turning to her with a cruel white calm of finality that made her eyes widen, that made her fall back before me.
I don't remember what I said.
I turned on her, and she fell back.
"You would do this to me now. You would raise your hand to me."
I am coming on, and she is falling back, and somewhere in the blind windy panic of my anger I remember targeting her eyes, her eyes for God's sake, she was my mother, almost 55 at the time --
I ripped the glasses from her face. We are in the next room now. I am still walking forward. She is still falling back. Her hands are coming up toward her face. This quailing, this falling back, incites a bloodlust thirty years old.
The veil does drop, not tulle now but canvas, like dreams do, the material is malleable. The heat in my head is a steam cooker, mounting toward catastrophe.
And my hands hook to claws and thirty-year-old rage rules me and my consciousness dims and I go for her eyes.
I WILL CLAW OUT THIS BITCH'S EYES!
Thirty years and untold suffering, I will! The bliss of this monster of infancy falling back before me, before the rage she nurtured, I owe her so MUCH! This debt will be discharged NOW--
Her hands are up to protect her face, an old woman, an old woman falling back before this, her own echo of an onslaught.
No, no, I stop, no--
My hands are arthritic claws --
I hold them up in front of my eyes and I see them, this is your mother.
I turn around, hands up like a crone's claws, like a vulture's grasp on empty air in front of me, I turn around.
I turn around and turn around and I walk away, with my traitorous hands out clawed in front of me like a deadly slug pulled from the Fat Boy of my insane, radioactive, barely-contained Superfund site of a soul.
I walk and walk and walk and walk away. I'm still walking, there's so much more but I can't tell it now, I can't bear another moment, I have to vomit up this evil but it comes in little hitches, desperate heaves, sudden fits and rushings of this miserable disease.
I went for her eyes.
It's the anger, /u/Radowl [1] . The anger is what I'm tired of. It's the anger. The anger. That's the thing, man. It has to go.
I need an Ayahuasca vacation, or something. I need something. But I'm going to fix this. It's almost over. She's dead to me, alive or not, and I have no plans to follow the bitch. Ay-wot?
Submitted August 12, 2015 at 10:13AM by Sysiphuslove http://ift.tt/1DLRXOj confession
