Yesterday’s Entry

July 9, 2016 at 7:02 pm Leave a comment

That was merely the release of pent-up frustration, built over nearly six decades.  There were moments when I was “one of them”.  Unfortunately early something else also intervened, that of consciousness, enlightened or (probably) not.  When I mentioned “my genius” yesterday I did so in light of a couple of government tests based on the Stanford-Benet (version 1970s) [skipping similar whatevers on whatever; I detest bragging simply because most of my (known) family so delighted in it, and I know I overdo it in my detestation, c’est le whatever once again; You Can’t Go Home Again most particularly if you find you weren’t there in the first place a depressing number of times].  My Aunt Marie had a high I.Q., periodic depression and self-loathing (leading to sadism, and, I suspect masochism) and even the records of her flights toward and acquisition of knowledge.  My Aunt Marie.  My Mom.  Or then again there’s Barbara.  My Mom.  The second, however, occurred legally when I was 7, seconds (days; it was the…never mind; six days) before I was 8 and enraging my now (half) sister and brother soon because that meant a whole lot of presents for me, what with Christmas and then all that…

 

Before that, there had been three years with Mom.  The first one, Barbara.  The one who immediately tried to have me aborted but I did the miscourtesy of birthing early–a month early, according to my steely-minded biological mother.  No, I never use sarcasm.  There were good parts.  On her side she simply had to get fucked.  I’m sorry, but bush-beating isn’t in the cards just now.  Or banging heads against walls in the vain attempt to avoid the brutal onset of the realization of the truth.  One does it, or rather the crowd does; it’s even contagious, you know, like the rebirthed dance from side to side of the nimble-footed and dull-witted pedestrians, in memory of my youth (presumably there are even old textbooks around still recording it), the one I personally solved by stopping and waiting.  I have weak ankles, you see.  Doing the Dance wasn’t in.  Doing all sorts of things to shy away from the Truth, the Whole Truth…wait a minute, I’ve gone off course here; no, I don’t mean to imply that there is such a thing.  Most of history is about nimble dances around perceived holes in the ground, said ‘holes’ consisting of, well, Truth, in minor manifestations.  I mean, it can happen.  Really.  Sort of.  She would get a few nights off and come back bathed in the fumes of nicotine and alcohol and fat and happy.  I’m going to leave the old phrase alone there because it’s so fitting.  By the end of a week or two she would be sagging and consumed with nothing but Truth in various manifestations.  I was the fart at the brunch, being a bastard.  No, I’m not pointing out my abominable behavior; I’m a bastard.  By birth.  I have no proper last name.  Whereas that’s no big thing now it was in the late 1950s in Jackson County.  They had Sundowner laws here until relatively recently; one city may still have them on the books.  There was pressure for me to vanish or find a father, preferably the former.  I was an embarrassment, and also to the family.

 

The 3 years, you see, was a trial, even to an infant.  Or perhaps not just any baby, I wouldn’t know.

Then there was Jay, who was an abuser.  He did bruise me a bit, but I did some unbelievable things for play by myself as well.  No, there’s no reason to report that without being asked.  The things I did weren’t sexual [in my world they couldn’t be, since I was 5].  And nearly 3 years later I was adopted.

 

That’s my life.  That’s the real world.  The very idea of being able to assign any importance to the nature of my biological father is somewhere between laughable and infuriating–and I have verified PTSD.  No more turning in circles because at a crucial point I’m very likely to snap and try to kill.  No one is going to try to entice me into it now, even if the possibility ever existed.  ::the sound of that tree in that unpeopled forest::

 

Entry filed under: Autobiography, social psychology. Tags: , .

Meeting The Family Writing

Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

Trackback this post  |  Subscribe to the comments via RSS Feed



%d bloggers like this: