This essay by Ruxandra Guidi in Mutha Magazine almost brought tears to my eyes. Today is a dry Capricorn moon. I am not crying. I cannot cry, although my progressed moon is in Pisces and sometimes I cry often and when I do cry I sob. Today was my last creative nonfiction writing workshop. I thought I would cry but I didn't.
These past eight years have been the most challenging of my life. I have been a mother since 1996 but I have been the mother of a child I can almost call mine since 2007. My son is not mine. I share joint custody of my son with my ex-husband but he is very much the parent in charge...the custodial parent, the provider, the one who takes my son to urgent care and all the rest. I have been challenged by strangers and family members. I have been taken to task. Raked over the coals. Threatened. Misaligned. Judged. Condemned. There is a toxic person who knows who she is. I won't name her because she would like that too much. She has been stalking me since "befriending" me at MySpace in 2008. Our poems appeared in the same small press anthology. When I wouldn't let her crash on my couch for a week she sent my husband at the time our private MySpace conversation in which I had confided in her about my dipshit crushes on random small press writers/editors. Oh the drama. She then proceeded to move across the country and befriend my two best friends and try to turn them against me. I know. It reads like a really shitty Lifetime movie starring Tori Spelling. Eventually my friends recognized her for the psycho she is but she's still making the open mic rounds and still leaves nasty comments about me at random websites. I am certain she is the "concerned anonymous citizen" (puke) who contacted my mom's employer in 2012, alerting her to a YouTube of mine in which I strum an electric guitar and sing about blow jobs and flashing my tits. My mom's employer was Child Protective Services. I don't believe in Hell but I can describe every inch of HELL (poverty/anxiety/depression/obsessive thoughts/alienation/unrequited love/fanged hatred that gnaws at your guts). I wish I believed in instant karma. I do not. Hitler had a good run right up until the bitter cyanide flavored end. He had friends and plenty of pussy. Jim Jones? Ditto. I can no longer expend any energy in anonymous psycho's general direction. Because shit, man. LIFE. "Got my own world to live through & I ain't gonna copy you." Jimi Hendrix sang it. Educate yo'self.
So. These past eight years. Yes. I am the mother of a beautiful, brilliant, sweet, infuriating little boy and all I can do is apologize to him for my myriad flaws and for this piece of shit world that he has inherited. I was driving today in a car that was gifted to me by my mom and her third husband (all of my cars have been gifts and I don't feel thrilled about the fact that I have never made a car payment I wish I were Beyonce all independent and fierce and shit) and I was thinking about reincarnation. I don't believe in it. But I was just musing out loud, talking to myself because American radio sucks some serious goat balls, and I said something similar to this:
"Fuck me. Who would choose to come back to this planet? Hell. We're all gamblers. We love to bet on the horsies and be lulled by the blinking dazzling orgasming slot machines and tricked by the loaded dice. So maybe our pale hovering spirits say...yeah, the last lifetime sucked...got raped a few times, never made any money, got bullied at Goddard Junior High in Midland, Texas by all the rich bitches whose mommies were brain surgeons and daddies were fat cat oil magnates, never found Mister Soul Mate(s), found one too many cockroaches in one too many bowls of Malt-O-Meal...but this time will be DIFFERENT. I'll be born a Kardashian! My tits and ass and face will be ADORED by the MASSES. And I will, like, totally be the darling of Instagram, the toast of YouTube, the Whore of Babylon! Wheeee! Pale spirit, that is an idiot gamble. No one is born a Kardashian. The Whore of Babylon is MADE, not born, and you have to know where to get your nails done, hair removed, asshole bleached and for fuck's SAKE don't send your pussy pics to the wrong motherfucker!"
It's like that. And it don't stop. The bulbs in my limbic xmas tree are just about burnt out. So Daddy was mean to me for my first six years and then he left me (and Mommy and baby sister and baby brother) for a fake tit flashing Cajun Gemini bruja bartender in New Orleans and the next few times he saw me he was all "don't wear shorts to the zoo, you whore" and blah yada blah. He hasn't liked me in four decades and that shit ain't about to change. So I fall, have been falling, for these men since I was four or so and there is always always (always) a bizarre love triangle of some kind. His dick is in my mouth but his heart is stuck on rewind, dreaming of The Gal That Got Away. Or better yet...The Bitch Who Never Was. Ouch is right. There's no pill for THAT. Would an hour on a couch each week untangle that kind of knot? Signs point to PROBABLY NOT.
So I come here. And I write. This is my unicorn diary with a busted lock. You are so welcome!
These past eight years have been the most challenging of my life. I have been a mother since 1996 but I have been the mother of a child I can almost call mine since 2007. My son is not mine. I share joint custody of my son with my ex-husband but he is very much the parent in charge...the custodial parent, the provider, the one who takes my son to urgent care and all the rest. I have been challenged by strangers and family members. I have been taken to task. Raked over the coals. Threatened. Misaligned. Judged. Condemned. There is a toxic person who knows who she is. I won't name her because she would like that too much. She has been stalking me since "befriending" me at MySpace in 2008. Our poems appeared in the same small press anthology. When I wouldn't let her crash on my couch for a week she sent my husband at the time our private MySpace conversation in which I had confided in her about my dipshit crushes on random small press writers/editors. Oh the drama. She then proceeded to move across the country and befriend my two best friends and try to turn them against me. I know. It reads like a really shitty Lifetime movie starring Tori Spelling. Eventually my friends recognized her for the psycho she is but she's still making the open mic rounds and still leaves nasty comments about me at random websites. I am certain she is the "concerned anonymous citizen" (puke) who contacted my mom's employer in 2012, alerting her to a YouTube of mine in which I strum an electric guitar and sing about blow jobs and flashing my tits. My mom's employer was Child Protective Services. I don't believe in Hell but I can describe every inch of HELL (poverty/anxiety/depression/obsessive thoughts/alienation/unrequited love/fanged hatred that gnaws at your guts). I wish I believed in instant karma. I do not. Hitler had a good run right up until the bitter cyanide flavored end. He had friends and plenty of pussy. Jim Jones? Ditto. I can no longer expend any energy in anonymous psycho's general direction. Because shit, man. LIFE. "Got my own world to live through & I ain't gonna copy you." Jimi Hendrix sang it. Educate yo'self.
So. These past eight years. Yes. I am the mother of a beautiful, brilliant, sweet, infuriating little boy and all I can do is apologize to him for my myriad flaws and for this piece of shit world that he has inherited. I was driving today in a car that was gifted to me by my mom and her third husband (all of my cars have been gifts and I don't feel thrilled about the fact that I have never made a car payment I wish I were Beyonce all independent and fierce and shit) and I was thinking about reincarnation. I don't believe in it. But I was just musing out loud, talking to myself because American radio sucks some serious goat balls, and I said something similar to this:
"Fuck me. Who would choose to come back to this planet? Hell. We're all gamblers. We love to bet on the horsies and be lulled by the blinking dazzling orgasming slot machines and tricked by the loaded dice. So maybe our pale hovering spirits say...yeah, the last lifetime sucked...got raped a few times, never made any money, got bullied at Goddard Junior High in Midland, Texas by all the rich bitches whose mommies were brain surgeons and daddies were fat cat oil magnates, never found Mister Soul Mate(s), found one too many cockroaches in one too many bowls of Malt-O-Meal...but this time will be DIFFERENT. I'll be born a Kardashian! My tits and ass and face will be ADORED by the MASSES. And I will, like, totally be the darling of Instagram, the toast of YouTube, the Whore of Babylon! Wheeee! Pale spirit, that is an idiot gamble. No one is born a Kardashian. The Whore of Babylon is MADE, not born, and you have to know where to get your nails done, hair removed, asshole bleached and for fuck's SAKE don't send your pussy pics to the wrong motherfucker!"
It's like that. And it don't stop. The bulbs in my limbic xmas tree are just about burnt out. So Daddy was mean to me for my first six years and then he left me (and Mommy and baby sister and baby brother) for a fake tit flashing Cajun Gemini bruja bartender in New Orleans and the next few times he saw me he was all "don't wear shorts to the zoo, you whore" and blah yada blah. He hasn't liked me in four decades and that shit ain't about to change. So I fall, have been falling, for these men since I was four or so and there is always always (always) a bizarre love triangle of some kind. His dick is in my mouth but his heart is stuck on rewind, dreaming of The Gal That Got Away. Or better yet...The Bitch Who Never Was. Ouch is right. There's no pill for THAT. Would an hour on a couch each week untangle that kind of knot? Signs point to PROBABLY NOT.
So I come here. And I write. This is my unicorn diary with a busted lock. You are so welcome!
No comments:
Post a Comment